


Land of Monsters

by MargaretSmoke



Series: Revival Universe [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bisexuality, Brotherhood of Steel - Freeform, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drama, Epic, Light Romance, M/M, Minutemen, Multi, Plot, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:02:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 70,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8584840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretSmoke/pseuds/MargaretSmoke
Summary: The Winchesters join forces with the Minutemen to find Castiel and save the General, only nothing goes according to plan. The Commonwealth is a dangerous, irradiated land, and Dean, charmed by the Brotherhood of Steel's stance on monsters, goes off-book. With Brotherhood fanaticism and Minutemen suspicions threatening this mission, Sam must keep it together for the sake of getting home. And maybe, just maybe, also keep a certain journalist from publishing the whole story.





	1. .the fallout. | .sam.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Fallout 4_ and _Supernatural_ are copyright their respective creators and copyright holders. This is a work of fanfiction. 
> 
> Original elements of the story, including unique portions of the plot, are copyright Margaret Smoke.
> 
> This work is complete. Chapters will be posted Thursdays, give or take a day to account for any schedule or technical issues.
> 
> This work is cross-posted to Wattpad and tumblr.
> 
> \--- Spoilers/Timeline ---
> 
> Supernatural - vaguely takes place in early/mid s11.
> 
> Fallout 4 - the Sole Survivor is involved with all major factions, but no faction has been favored or made into an enemy; vague spoilers for expansions and add-ons in terms of new Companions, NPC factions known, and build-mode items available; spoilers for basics of Survival Mode; MAJOR Companion story spoilers for max affinity levels.
> 
> \--- CONTENT WARNINGS ---
> 
> This will contain the same level of mature language and violence that Fallout contains.
> 
> \--- General Notes ---
> 
> I took some liberties with certain aspects of the Fallout world, mainly to account for the bridge between the "reality" of the Supernatural 'verse and the limitations of video games. My hope is they will barely be noticed. Also, I might have given one character something they don't usually have. You might not notice that either. Enjoy!

* * *

land of monsters  
a _supernatural_ and _fallout 4_ crossover  
by margaret smoke

* * *

.the fallout.

.sam.

Sam Winchester lifted himself from the hard mattress with a groan. He cracked his neck and yawned, squinting to avoid the nuisance of morning light. This would be the last time he’d let his older brother, Dean, convince him that Dad’s method of choosing lodging was the best method. It was time to splurge for one of those swanky hotel rooms. _I’m probably just used to the bunker,_ he thought.

His body gave into his brain’s desire to wake-the-hell-up and, upon his second yawn, he opened his eyes.

This was not the room he fell asleep in.

Dean, who was also sitting upright on a disgusting mattress, stared back at him. “You have a creepy yawn.”

Sam ignored Dean’s attempt at dark humor and checked the room. It had that unpleasant post-apocalyptic decor to it, with the cracked walls, peeling wallpaper, and dust-covered floors. The smell was unlike anything he’d ever smelled, like fresh air, but somehow permanently burnt by a soldering iron. It was a squatter’s nightmare, and anyway, not even where they fell asleep. “Where the hell are we?”

“No clue, but I came to in that corner.” Dean pointed to a corner of debris, made up largely of papers and dirty cloth. The pile sported a nice, person-sized depression. “You were on the floor next to me. I set you over there so you could finish your beauty rest.”

“I didn’t wake up?”

“Nope, you were sleeping like a baby.” Dean shot him that smile that blended sarcasm and disappointment. Dirt had already settled into the creases near his green eyes, and there was a smear of dust atop the freckles on his fair peach skin. The black tee he wore the day before—was it tomorrow already?—also had a layer of brown and gray Pollocked atop it.

Looking at him, Sam suddenly had the feeling of dust and dirt and possibly bugs all over his own skin, although he’d worn a long-sleeved plaid shirt to bed. He was thankful for the habit; he and his brother had been attacked or called to action so many times during sleep that they’d grown accustomed to falling asleep in their clothes, sometimes even their shoes, and this time, it’d kept him clothed in a place he really didn’t want to be wearing just boxers in. He patted down his clothes, holding his breath so as not to breathe in whatever covered him, then stood to stretch before shaking out the motel blanket that seemed to have traveled with him.

“Did you ever go to sleep?” he asked Dean.

“No, well, not until we got here. Nodded off for a bit after moving you, but it wasn’t more than an hour.” He pulled out his phone. “By the way, this thing’s a piece of junk here.”

Sam checked his pockets. That’s one thing he didn’t fall asleep with, because the phone would crack. He was missing his wallet too; actually, just about everything in his pockets was gone but a folded bandana he’d picked up at one of those dollar stores in town, and an article he’d found on the case were working. “Mine’s back at the motel.”

“Lots of stuff is back in the motel.”

Sam searched the room, in case anything else had traveled with them.

“I already did that.”

“So we just teleported here?”

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed his face, making it even more dirty than before, and making the paleness of his skin where it was clean even more apparent.

“You okay, Dean?”

“Just a little nauseous, probably from the spell. You?”

“I mean, a little, but you look like you’re about to turn green.”

“Look outside, Sammy.”

“There’re no windows.” In fact, now that Sam was starting to clean up the room in his mind, and make sense of some of the broken furniture, it looked like an office, one that people would be happy to take because of its medium size, but one that they would also be happy to upgrade out of on account of the closeted feeling. No windows even looked out into the hallway, unless you counted the Shining-sized hole in the wooden door.

Dean struggled to his feet—yeah, something was wrong with him—food poisoning?—and led Sam out into the hallway, a small dead end with the same amount of grime and crap littered everywhere. Across from them was a rusted-out bathroom with no door at all, and to their left, the hall opened up. Out here, there was the faint smell of…oil. A poster about cars that had a classic look to them, not unlike the Impala. _Which is probably back at the motel parking lot, along with most of our guns._

Dean gestured to the open room, then nodded at a turned over bucket and entered. Sam lingered, waiting to hear if Dean were sick, but his brother only shuffled around in the room, so Sam continued down the hall. He came out into a garage with a broken door and no glass at all.

“Shit.”

Beyond the windows lay a wasteland, worse than the post-Croatoan world Dean had once described to him. A world of brown and pale green, of bent and broken steel and shattered bricks. Naked trees raked an otherwise beautiful sky, one with the honey and tangerine colors of sunrise, but there was something faintly _green_ about the horizon too, particularly to…the south? Yes, the south.

Sam’s heart pounded. Nothing about their current or ongoing cases pointed to a land like this. Nothing about the crazy dealings in Heaven or Hell or Purgatory pointed to a land like this. So where were they? _An alternate timeline? The same one from before? Did we fall into another world, like Oz?_ Or maybe another archangel was still kicking around, and screwing with their mind. Perhaps it was the work of another creature thus far unknown to them.

No matter the cause, they needed out.

Sam looked around for something to use as a weapon. He spotted some heavy, blunt objects that could be swung several times before breaking, depending, of course, on what they were swung at. Sam had watched those movies replay on TV, and he knew that somehow, someway, there’d be something out there with bones and soft skin causing terror.

He hefted a long wrench first, testing its weight. He gave it a swing to check the grip. No good. He swept a pile of bottle caps off a built-in countertop, then set down the wrench. The bottle caps bounced and tumbled with tiny _clacks_. He toed them aside so they wouldn’t keep crunching underfoot, then picked up a pipe, wondering if it were made of something safe to hold. He set that down too, and looked for anything that could be made of iron. He lifted a discarded baseball bat, its sturdy wood scratched and a little splintered where a logo once existed. A few small dents spoke of mishandling. Good enough. He lay that alongside the other weapons and expanded his search for anything useful. The gorgeous red paint of a workshop tool chest called to him from behind a cart loaded with crispy, decaying magazines. He pushed and pulled until the cart’s rusted wheels scraped and screeched and finally rotated. He pulled on one of the tool chest’s drawers, expecting the same resistance, but it opened with little fuss.

“Sammy?” Dean called out from the back hall. “You come across any water out there?”

“No, but I found some things we could use as weapons.” It’d been a while since he’d been called Sammy, but that was likely indicative of how Dean was feeling. Sam was nauseated too, but he didn’t think it was to the extent Dean was, and he figured that most of it had set in on account of seeing what he had seen.

“I’ve got a few things here too,” Dean yelled back.

A flutter.

Sam’s head shot up, his ears pricked. The weapons were on the other side of the room.

A rustle.

Dean’s head poked out from the hall. The two brothers nodded at each other; neither had made the noise they’d clearly both heard.

Sam watched the outside world, an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar colors. Would he be able to spot anything out there? Had whatever or whomever inhabited this world developed the ability to blend in?

A _click_ and a _clack_. Insect-like. Repetitive. More shuffling, more harsh _clicks_ with that otherworldly quality. Sam looked at Dean, who signaled to the window in the far corner. Sam’s eyes darted around, looking for anything beside him that could be used as a weapon, but unless he wanted to use a rolled up a magazine, he wouldn’t be able to kill anything but a fly.

And from the sounds of it, what approached was likely no ordinary bug.

He’d have to make a mad dash for the weapons, or pull out one of the tool chest’s drawers and use it like a shield, if this particular chest had easy-to-remove drawers.

A green glow ebbed up the edges of window. _An apparition?_ Damn, couldn’t there be anything made of solid iron around here? He glanced at Dean, who gripped a wrench that looked a lot like the one Sam had found, then looked back at the glow.

Antennae emerged, _huge_ antennae, at least a foot long, probably longer when they weren’t curled.

A giant cockroach?

A metallic _boom_ pierced the air as a red flash hit the approaching roach, turning it into ash. Sam and Dean ducked, and Sam crab-walked to the counter, reaching up to grab whatever he grabbed first—the baseball bat—then he joined Dean in the hallway while red flashes soared toward the other _clacking_ noises.

“Star Wars?” Dean whispered. “Did we fall into a fricken _Star Wars_ movie?”

Burnt meat wafted into the hallway, making Dean grimace and further greening his complexion. Sam’s gut didn’t have quite the same reaction.

_“Clear!”_

_“Clear!”_

“What’s our plan?” Dean asked.

“Reason?” said Sam, standing and offering Dean a hand.

Dean declined, and allowed himself to look as sick as he likely felt. “Roll with it.”

The “we need help” angle. Made them look more vulnerable and less likely to be considered as threats by anyone they’d come across. They would be underestimated, or at least, Dean would.

_Or maybe Dean really feels that sick._

“Hold!” said a man’s voice. “Who’s there?”

“We could use some help over here!” Sam called back. Better to let them know where they were than to startle them and take a laser in the head.

“We’re armed,” the voice called back.

“We don’t want any trouble,” said Sam. He hated the old line, but it worked.

A steady pair of footsteps approached them. Sam looked up to find a woman in a cowboy hat and duster, armed with a weapon straight out of a sci-fi movie. Her light brown skin looked battle-worn, her chin bore a scar, and she kept her black hair tied tight and low behind her head.

“Drop the weapons,” she said.

The brothers did so, though Dean’s grip hadn’t been very firm to begin with.

“They’re clear,” she called to those behind her. “One of ‘em looks like he picked up too many rads.”

Three more people approached, each wearing similar garb. Their leader, a man of dark brown skin and a strong posture, kept his long hi-tech rifle pointed down and away from everyone else. He set his rifle against the wall, and held out his hand.

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.”

 _Minutemen. A militia?_ Sam wondered if Dean had picked up the historical reference. He’d been getting better with his non-supernatural history since they got into the bunker. Sometimes, Sam could lovingly return the “nerd” insult Dean’s way too.

Sam stood and shook the man’s hand. “Sam Winchester.” No use for an alias here, despite Dean’s grunt of disapproval. “That’s my brother, Dean.”

“What do you mean by rads?” Dean said, tight-throated.

“Radiation?” said Preston. He nodded to another man on the team, a guy with tanned peach skin and a little less age than Preston seemed to have. The guy took off his massive backpack, akin to the kind that hardcore hikers use, and removed a first-aid kit.

“Isn’t that the last of it?” said another woman, who looked a lot like the guy Sam presumed was the medic. They shared the same dirty blond hair and serious brow.

“I need your arm,” the medic said to Dean, pulling out an IV bag of weird, orangish fluids with a sketchy label reading “RadAway.”

Dean’s eyes widened and he straightened his back along the wall, as if trying to escape.   Sam reached for the bat, but was urged to drop it when the first woman reminded him of her gun.

“What is that?” Dean said, watching with horror as the medic used vodka from a dirty bottle to sanitize his hands and the other instruments.

“RadAway,” said the medic, who had reached for Dean’s arm for the next part of process. Dean pulled away, but the medic was stronger, and he forcefully cleaned the future entryway of the RadAway.

“You’re gonna need to be more specific,” Dean said. “Because that stuff looks toxic.”

“Pretend we’re…uh…new to the area,” Sam said.

The sister scoffed, while the medic explained in pure medic fashion: calm, collected, and in the midst of the procedure. “Rads are jargon for units of radiation, specifically ones we take into our body. Too much, and you get sick. RadAway clears that out, provided you haven’t gone to the point of no return.” The medic paused and examined Dean’s face, and the exposed skin of his other arm. “You haven’t gone ghoul yet, so I think we’re safe.”

Sam and Dean shared a look. This was the only way, they realized. There was no use in asking questions. They were in a messed up world with giant, glowing roaches, no lush greens, and laser guns. Radiation poisoning—if that’s what Dean had, and Sam was pretty sure that Dean had the symptoms, since they could come on quickly after exposure—was no joke.

“Do it,” said Dean. “And if you can save some for my brother—”

“This is all we have left, until we get to Sanctuary,” the medic said, which was met with his sister’s silent approval. “I’ll check you out when I’m done with your brother, Sam, but I think a dose of Rad-X will cover you ‘til we make it back.”

“Thanks, Doctor…?”

“Grant, just Grant is fine. Hold still. This is going to pinch.” Grant proceeded to treat Dean with precision, though the apocalypse had given the procedure some rough edges, such as Grant becoming the IV stand and holding the bag high above Dean.

When everything was said and done, Dean complained of being sleepy, so Grant forced him to drink some water (which he assured the brothers was purified), and a slurry of herbs. After quickly judging the mattress situation, he encouraged Sam to lay out the blanket and the two helped Dean walk over to it to rest.

“His immune system will be a little weak for a while, but that’s what the antimicrobial is for,” said Grant. “Preston, we hunkering down for a bit?”

“I suppose so,” said Preston. “But not long. We just broke down a camp, and I’d like to stay on schedule. The second he’s ready to go, we go.” He nodded at the hall. “Got a minute, Sam?”

Sam looked at Dean, who had his eyes closed. “Go ahead, Sam, I got this.”

“So do I,” said Grant.

Sam nodded at Preston, and they headed back to the main garage, where the other two in the squad had already begun scavenging and moving around bigger pieces to build fortifications.

“Where’re you two from that you don’t have radiation like this?” Preston asked.

“It’s complicated,” said Sam. “It’s different. _Very_ different.”

“Like a vault? Where’re the jumpsuits?”

 _A vault?_ “Like I said, it’s pretty different.” Sam stared into the distance. They were on the edge of a town, or a city, and he could see vague shapes in the distance that suggested more. The morning light now consumed the landscape; maybe that’s what the roaches were trying to get away from. “You made it sound like we were going with you, before.”

“You are, if you want to. Especially if you’ve got no clue how to survive out here.” He rifled through the tool chest that Sam hadn’t realized he had inwardly claimed for himself. “Tell me more. Just how different are we talking?”

“Our trees had leaves,” said Sam. _Is it worth it to lie?_ At least if he were vague, Preston would slip up and let him know about places that were green. Then Sam could get a sense of where they were. Somewhere in the States, he figured, one of the states that still had “Commonwealth” in its name. Massachusetts made sense with the reference to the Minutemen.

Preston let that information sit for a moment. He pocketed some screws, and picked up a half-used roll of duct tape and slid it over his wrist. “Leaves. That’s interesting.” He moved to the cart with all of its crispy reading material, and made two piles: one of somewhat viable reading material, and the other faded kindling. “You know, Sam, I think there’s someone you need to meet, someone who came from a world where the trees still had leaves.”

“Who?”

Preston stared him in the eye. “The General of the Minutemen.”


	2. .sanctuary. | .dean.

.sanctuary.

.dean.

 

This place was like Mad Max, but without the awesome cars and the kickass feminist flair of the remake that Charlie would have loved. He figured she would’ve understood this world better than he did, that she’d probably played some video game like it, or read a comic. Not that he’d want her to be here with them, even though that’d mean she was still alive, but hey, he missed her. It’d been nice to have a best friend who wasn’t a blood relative, or who wasn’t accidentally choosing to be evil and sometimes beating the crap out of him to make a point. Plus, he’d been a better person when she was around. Even though they’d scoped out women together, Charlie had started to explain the difference between appreciating a person as an object, and appreciating a person because of their human qualities, which were sometimes aesthetic in nature. That little tidbit had come out after she confessed that she sometimes acted “like a piggish guy” because that’s how she survived in a world run by men.

She’d given Dean a lot to think about.

Despite the lack of Mad Max cars, these cars were real beauties in their prime, at least those Dean had spotted in that town with the Red Rocket. Some had that weird spaceship thing going on, as if the people embraced the 1950s and just never let go. He wasn’t interested in dealing with a bunch of sex-negative, “Good Old-Fashioned Americans!” in this fucked up world, or dealing with the kind of people who kept women in kitchens and away from cool jobs, like hacking computers.

Of course, if the make up of this little squad of Minutemen were any indication (maybe Charlie would’ve picked on that name too, Minute _men_ ), then maybe some things about this world were a lot better than things in the one they came from.

Dean stuffed a snack cake into his mouth. “For something two centuries old,” he said to Sam, “these things are still pretty good. Want one?”

“What?” Sam said, looking a little embarrassed. “I can’t understand you.”

Dean swallowed the cake. “Want one?”

“You? Share?” Sam eyed the treat, then shrugged, wiped his hand on his shirt, and plucked out a small cake for himself. Unlike Dean, he took small bites. “Not bad.”

“Can barely taste the radiation,” Dean joked. Grant had told them that most food contained trace amounts of radiation. Sam didn’t appreciate the joke, and now he made the same smug face he made whenever he ate real, radiation-free snack food back home. “Okay, well next time, order the salad.”

Sam shook his head, his too-long-to-be-practical brown hair shaking with it. He finished the cake with a begrudging expression and continued scoping out the barren landscape.

They followed the power grid southeast, heading toward a place called Sanctuary Hills that Preston assured them was much better than the hole they’d woken up in. Dean didn’t like getting too close to transmission towers, having heard all the radiation tales of the massive structures back home, but now the steel giants loomed, powerless, crunchy brown weeds crawling up their legs, and that somehow made them more creepy. Sam was right about the smell too, that odd mix of nature and metal shop, not to mention the touch of BO clinging to the Minutemen, and probably a little to the Winchesters after all this walking in the sun.

Dean and Sam kept the teleporting part of their story to themselves, and Preston seemed okay with that. He was pretty tight-lipped about the Minutemen anyway, and the rest of the squad barely spoke, except for the times when some mutated creature crossed their path.

“Radstags,” Myra, the woman who’d first approached them, said. The weird, two-headed, almost-two-bodied deer could get nasty if you got too close, but Myra was a seasoned hunter, she explained, and so they had nothing to worry about if one got aggressive. That was part of why they followed the miles of power lines; it kept them out in the open. They were confident that they wouldn’t be exposed to “other unfriendlies,” the kinds who liked hiding in shadows and behind fortifications.

“And what about those things you guys nuked—er, _killed_ back where you found us?” Dean asked.

“Radroaches.”

“Keeping it simple with the names, huh?”

Myra snickered, but Dean could tell Sam was glaring holes into the side of his head.

Since the Minutemen had arrived, the Winchesters hadn’t had a chance to really _talk_ about the craziness they were going through, but they were keeping tabs on their new companions, and the world around them. Dean sure as hell had been skeptical about leaving Sam alone with them during his little nap and all that post-RadAway crap, but this was a whole new experience, completely unknown. Getting radiation poisoning had been scary. Monsters? Possessions? Hell, bullets? They’d both bounced back from that. Dying? Yeah, they’d bounced back from that too, albeit it with a couple of dents. But radiation…they had no idea what to do about the _permanence_ of radiation here, in a world they couldn’t even figure out how they got to, that might not even have the same critters or the same gods, or the same angels…

“Shit,” he uttered to Sam. The Minutemen soldiers gave them a glance, but recognized the convo as being a moment of privacy, so they kept their noses out of it. Still, they weren’t exactly far away, so Dean tried to be as vague as possible. “I just had a scary thought.”

Sam took Dean’s cue for quiet. “Yeah?”

“I’d just hung up the phone with Cas when…all this.”

“What?”

“I dunno if he was on his way, or if he…you know, might fall in after us.”

Sam hit Dean’s arm and stopped him. The Minutemen continued forward, although Myra kept her eyes on them. “Are you kidding me? There’s a chance Cas is back there?”

“I have no idea, Sam.”

“Should we go back and look?”

“No, because we kind of need their supplies, but I’ve been paying attention and think we could get back there easily.”

“Me too. Good, so there’s a plan. You think they’ll just up and let us go searching? We don’t know these guys.”

“I know.”

The Minutemen had finally stopped, and Preston was lending an ear to Willa, while her brother checked a watch.

“Let’s catch up to them,” Sam said.

“You fellas okay?” said Myra.

“We’re good,” Dean said.

“Copy that.”

They trudged across the fields, following the power lines until a creek came into earshot. The sound of running water relieved Dean, and he could see his brother had the same reaction, but he knew it wouldn’t be safe to drink, let alone swim in.

“So what’s that sound, Rad Creek?” Dean cracked a smile at the group, but only Myra showed her sense of humor. Sam and Willa fought for dead last in the humor race.

“Hold up,” said Preston. He signaled to Myra, who peered through a scope at the remnants of a camp beneath a transmission tower.

“Still gone,” she said.

Preston smelled the air. “No recent fires, either. Good. Bugs?”

Myra didn’t respond, but instead scouted the water’s edge. She signaled that it was a no-go.

When she returned, Preston said, “Alright, here’s where we veer a bit. We’ll walk ‘til we see the walls, and cross there.”

They moved closer to the creek. Preston silently pointed to massive insects awaiting a disturbance, and the party quieted, tiptoeing over twigs and crunchy weeds until a town came into view. Unlike the decrepit place Dean and his brother had arrived in, this one looked alive, and not just because of the moving spotlights that sat upon the walls.

“You have power?” Sam asked.

“We’ve got a lot of things,” said Preston. “Maybe not what you’re used to, but we’re starting to become our own little jewel of the Commonwealth, thanks to the General.”

“More like the ten millimeter of the Commonwealth,” Myra said. “Better than a pipe pistol, but no laser pistol.”

“Or Goodneighbor 2. We’ve even got our own Hancock.” Willa sighed dramatically. “Oh wait, it’s the same Hancock. Joy.”

Dean snickered at the name. Sam hit his arm.

“Oh come on, Willa,” said Grant. “We’re way better than Goodneighbor. And anyway, they’ve got a nice thing going on in those buildings.”

“You just want to test those loungers.”

“They have practical applications.”

Preston gave a look as if to reply to all this Goodneighbor talk, whatever that was about, but instead returned to the journey. “Cross here. I know it’s wide, but wading isn’t so bad, and no bugs like we had back there. Then we can get across that bridge right there and head on in.”

“There’s no other entrance?” Dean said.

“Exits only. Too vulnerable.” Preston shrugged. “Besides, we need to get you two ID’d if you plan on staying. Turrets at the other gates are always on, and they don’t know you from a raider.”

“Define ‘ID’d,’ ” said Sam.

“And ‘turrets,’ ” added Dean.

“Turrets use biometrics to identify hostiles from friendlies.” Preston entered the creek as if he knew the precise rocks to use to get across without getting swept away. “You get ID’d by the system, they won’t fire on you. The ones inside town and the ones at the main gate are activated after a threat is posed; that way we’re not shooting visitors, but we’re also not vulnerable to attack through our emergency exits.”

“So you just rely on a computer to make sure someone isn’t killed.”

Now Preston laughed. “Oh, the General is gonna love you. She asked Sturges that same question after building Sanctuary its first turret.”

“She?” said Dean, and before he could follow up with his next inquiry, Sam mouthed a silent _no_ to him. Dean shook his head and asked anyway. “She got a name?” Sam now offered his silent approval.

“I’d rather she decide how you address her.”

Dean plunged his foot into the cool, running creek. _Shame this thing is poisoned._ He and Sam crossed nearly last, with Myra at their tail, and they trudged up a hill to the end of the bridge, where they would cross the same damn creek they just crossed.

“Whose that?” Sam asked of the statue that met them.

“Read the plaque later,” Willa retorted.

The bridge was mostly original, with an obviously repaired patch near the middle. Dean and Sam privately communicated their lack of faith in the bridge’s stability, but crossed, pretending the worry did not exist. Making a bad impression on a leader in this weird place wouldn’t give them much of a shot at survival, and so far, Dean had a good feeling, a hunch that for once they weren’t about to be stabbed in the back and turned into monster food.

So far so good. Preston passed the guards without having to explain anything. The guards gave the Winchesters quick, but deep looks, and let them in without question. Preston’s presence either carried a lot of weight, or this place was full of stupid people. And, from the abundance of cleverly built abodes atop the ruins of what was probably a quaint suburb, and the towering concrete walls fixed with lights and defenses, Dean figured they were probably not stupid.

“This is kind of awesome,” Dean uttered to Sam.

“For the post-apocalypse, I guess it is.”

“Come on, Sam. Let out your inner nerd. You know you wanna figure out how they built this from nothing.”

They heard an unusual mooing. Sam found the source first, and tapped Dean. Ahead, a pinkish, authentic two-headed cow carried the load of the woman in blue who walked it. Her shrewd mien told Dean to stop staring.

Stores, workers, and workshops lined the sole avenue. A woman tore weeds from a crack in the asphalt, while another woman filled the grout between heavy stones of a sidewalk-in-progress. Between houses, Dean spotted crops. Bushels of corn and weird tomatoes sat next to an eager merchant, dressed sharply in a pinstripe suit and fedora.

“Dude, look!”

Dean pointed at a robot, a genuine robot, _floating_ across the street like it was completely and totally normal to hover. It wore a bowler hat, and greeted citizens with a distinct English accent.

“It’s a robot…” uttered Sam, who’d come to a stop.

“It’s a fricken robot!” Dean grinned, making a goofy face at Sam in hopes of getting a return grin, then searched for more robots. Instead, he was greeted by the neon lights of a bar. “Sam, the apocalypse is awesome.”

“You do know we almost had an actual apocalypse. Where I fell into Hell. With our brother.”

“But this one has robots and beer.”

“You can get the tour later,” Preston said. “The General’s a busy person and we should catch her before she heads out again.”

“Check out these trees, Sammy!” Dean plucked a purple fruit from the small tree, which had yellow leaves that fit right into this world, but were somehow beautiful. He sniffed the fruit. “Can I eat this?” He sniffed it again, and took a bite.

“Hey! That’s not your tree to pick, buddy!” the guy who now obviously maintained the tree said.

Dean swallowed. It was a weird fruit.

Myra tossed him some bottle caps. “He’s new.” She grabbed Dean at the elbow, and ushered him on. Dean didn’t mind; this place was way better than the wasteland outside the walls, and the novelty within was getting to him. He probably needed a guide.

Sam stayed behind a few steps. “Sorry about him,” he said to the guy, before catching up.

“We’ve got a system here,” Myra explained as they passed a yellow house under careful reconstruction. “The plant’s not really his. Everyone’s gotta pitch in. We meet the needs of the residents first, put a percentage into storage just in case, and then the rest is sold by the town wholesale to merchants, who can do whatever they want with it.”

“Are you Communists?” Dean asked.

“Huh?”

“Dean…” warned Sam.

Dean took the hint, but continued eating the weird fruit. Was it a…blackberry? A blueberry? Some kind of giant berry, sort of, but with that same weird soldering iron burn flavor too. “What’s this thing called, anyway?”

“Mutfruit,” said Myra.

“Short for ‘mutated fruit’?”

Myra nodded.

“Well at least the names here don’t keep you guessing.”

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam hissed.

Dean smirked and held up the fruit. “You need something to eat, Sam?” The question was answered with a glare and an angry pucker. Sam’s b— _Whoa, okay, I see what you mean, Charlie._ But one of Dean’s favorite phrases was…and couldn’t he just…?

Grant and Willa veered off toward a building flaunting that classic medical cross, saying they’d meet up with Sam to treat him after his meeting. Dean hoped they stuck to their promises here in this world, and noted where the building was as he continued to follow Preston and Myra. They approached a concrete building, where a guy dressed in some old-timey pirate-probably getup leaned in the entry alcove, enjoying a smoke break. Preston nodded at him, and the guy stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and followed him inside.

“Is he okay?” Sam asked Myra. The guy’s whole face had been burned and scarred.

“You never seen a ghoul before?”

“Ghoul.” Dean played with the word in his mind. “That’s what the doc said when he was treating me, that I hadn’t turned ghoul yet. You telling me I could’ve ended up looking like that?”

“Like _him_ ,” Sam corrected.

“Maybe, or maybe you’d just be dead,” Myra said. “I’m not too clear on how it works. You get to live a lot longer though, so long as you don’t go feral and run into someone with a gun.”

“Is he in pain?” Sam asked. He made sure to stop them before heading inside. He’d always demonstrated better manners than Dean, but Sam sometimes forgot that Dean had taught him all those manners.

Dean just…didn’t have a lot of time for bullshit in his life anymore. Especially since they’d started living on actual borrowed time.

“I don’t think he’s in that kind of pain,” said Myra. “But I honestly don’t know. Hancock is a little…different.”

“Wait, _that’s_ Hancock?” Dean checked for eavesdroppers. “Willa didn’t seem to care for him.”

“She doesn’t seem to care for anyone, Dean,” Sam added.

“Neither of you are wrong.” Myra checked the area. “Look, the General trusts him, and he’s never done anything out of line so long as he’s been here. Even Deacon seems to trust him, and Deacon, well, he doesn’t trust anyone.”

“You guys keep the faith around here?” said Dean.

“What?” Myra shook her head. “No. Well, each of us does in our own way. That’s just his name. Deacon. At least that’s what he tells everyone.” She opened the door. “Head inside, and don’t make any sudden moves.”

Framed by barn-red wood affixed to concrete, the white-lit lobby erased any remaining traces of the apocalypse from Dean’s mind, until he spotted the armed Minuteman behind the front desk. Plush sofas called out to Dean’s aching back and feet; traveling that far after getting a RadAway treatment was probably not the best idea. Before he could even think of sitting down, Sam nudged him down a utilitarian hall toward Preston, who waited with Hancock beside an open door.

“Wait in here.” Preston gestured to the straight-backed, cushioned chairs, and Dean didn’t hesitate to take the order. “I’ll be back with the General.” Myra took a sentinel’s watch beside the door.

The conference room housed a stunning, hand-drawn wall map, and an old—like _really_ old—computer at a desk on the far wall. Other necessities included folders, papers, a cup of pens and pencils, and a shelf of liquor lined with a mix of glasses and mugs. _At least they know how to make a meeting fun._

That ghoul, Hancock, peered at the lobby. “Hold up, Preston.” He glanced inside, then again out at the lobby. “Any word on how long Nora’ll be?” He had a rough voice, but not as rough as Dean expected. It was smoother, a little slyer than Dean liked.

“Only as long as it takes me to get her. Why? Can’t it wait until we’re done here?”

“Wait, you think she’s here? In town?”

“Did we miss her?”

Dean pulled a face at Sam.

“In a manner of speaking…” said Hancock.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” asked Preston.

“Yeah, she took off and _I_ figured it was to catch up with you.”

“ _You_ figured? What do you mean?”

Hancock nodded at the conference room.

Preston looked in and caught Dean’s eye. Dean and Sam both shied away, pretending they weren’t doing exactly what they were doing.

“No one felt the need to notify me of this when I returned?” said Preston.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Hancock eyed the Winchesters, and Dean felt it. “Maybe they thought _they_ had something to answer for.”

“They’re not prisoners.”

“Then maybe…are you sure you didn’t see her?”

“We’re sure. We took the established route. Did anyone go with her?”

Hancock shook his head.

“Not even Dogmeat?”

“No. She was being stubborn.” Hancock clenched a fist. “Shit.”

Dean drummed the table, a long, antique, wooden thing with golden-embossed edges. “So…does that mean we’re done here?”

“Not a chance, pal.” Hancock entered, put his scarred palms on the head of the table, and leaned over them. “I think I’m gonna keep you company for a while.”

“They’re fine, Hancock, stand down.” Preston stayed at the door. “But there is a bit of a…problem that you two can help us with.”

“You think she was sucked into our world?” Sam asked.

Hancock stood straight. “What?” He turned to Preston. “What is he talking about?”

_Great,_ Dean thought. _Now we’ll get blamed for losing their Number One._

“Shoot.” Preston rubbed his brow. “What do you mean by that?”

“Damn it, Sammy,” muttered Dean.

Myra tensed.

Sam shook his head. Oh god, Dean knew that look. Sam always grimaced ever so slightly before saying something rash. “We were teleported here somehow, and woke up in that Red Rocket.” Preston slowly entered the room, the way someone would approach a spider while holding a shoe. “We’re not from around here because we’re not even from this world, or this timeline.”

The three stared at the Winchesters, silent. Dean swallowed, side-glaring at Sam. This wasn’t how he wanted this to go down. They were supposed to talk to Preston in private, in a safer setting, and precede the confession with an apologetic disclaimer. Who knows how they’d treat them now? Dean couldn’t blame them if they wanted to kill the spider; Dean would do it without a second thought if the shoe were in the other hand.

“Fuckin’ hell,” said Hancock.

“You’re telling me you came through some kind of portal,” said Preston.

“Yeah,” said Dean, worried about what Sam might say next. “We think.”

Preston looked at Hancock, then Myra, then back at Hancock, who shrugged and gave another incredulous huff. Preston sighed and relaxed his posture. Sam and Dean relaxed too.

Preston looked at Myra, who’d also relaxed as much as a soldier could when standing to attention. “Alright, Myra? Gather the Companions. I want Old Longfellow here fast. He still in the Commonwealth?”

“He arrived here two days ago, sir.”

“Get him. The rest of them too, but Longfellow first.”

“Strong, sir?”

“Oh yes, especially Strong.”

She shuddered. “Yes, sir.”

“You have someone named _Strong_?” Dean snickered. “Have you guys heard of baby-name books?”

Hancock chuckled. “You know what, when he gets here, you should ask him how he got his name.”

“I take it that’s a bad idea.”

“It’s _colossally_ bad.”

_I guess this guy’s alright. Bit rough around the edges._ Dean couldn’t make sense of his face. _Literally._ Were ghouls monsters? Or was it really just a name for people who got burned too bad in this world? _What was Myra talking about earlier, with the ferals?_ Because there was something…zombie-like about Hancock, in the very classical sense of the creature.

“Alright, enough of the jokes,” said Preston. “Hancock, I need Grant back here to look at Sam, see if there’s anything we can do before we get this meeting under way.”

“So I’m on errand-boy duty. You got it.” Hancock gave Sam and Dean a sarcastic tip of his hat and sauntered out of the room.

“I guess that just leaves us.” Preston loaded up the computer, which sprung to life surprisingly fast for a piece of junk. He inserted something huge and orange into it, and pressed a button. “So start talking. Walk me through how you got here.”

“Sam was sleeping.” Dean refused to give Sam that choice. It was his turn to do the talking, and he figured he had to be a little more measured about it so that Sam wouldn’t let his ethics get ahead of his survival. Besides, Dean was tired, and didn’t have enough information about this world to come up with a believable lie that would keep these guys from thinking they somehow stole their beloved General. The best thing Dean had was the truth, delivered unequivocally. Plus, it was the only thing he could keep straight, since he figured he was probably being recorded on that orange thing. “Aside from that nap I took after Grant pumped me full of that stuff, I hadn’t slept since the night before. I was on the phone with our friend, Cas, who was gonna meet us in the motel Sam and I were staying in.”

“Your phone…your phones work?”

“Not here, but yeah.”

“Why would you lug a telephone with you?”

Dean revealed his cell phone. “This thing? It’s a mobile phone. Wireless. Takes pictures and sends messages too. Plus, there’s this game—”

Sam’s face visibly groaned at him. “Dean, no one cares about your game.”

“Fine, fine. Anyway, I hung up with Cas and started playing that game, because I couldn’t sleep. And then I heard this noise.” That surprised Sam. “It was a soft noise, Sammy, don’t worry. I thought it was you, at first, and so I asked you what was up, and heard it again, so I stood, and then there was this…this thing…” Dean’s eyes hurt just thinking about it. “Really bright, and I was suddenly standing on a scrap of the carpet I’d been whisked away on, and Sam was snoozing under a blanket. He slept through the whole thing.”

“Is that true?” Preston asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, begrudgingly.

“Anyway, I scoped out the garage and realized we weren’t in Kansas anymore.”

“You’re from Kansas?” Preston had a quizzical look.

“Well, actually yes, but it’s a phrase. We weren’t actually in Kansas when we were spirited away.”

“But you weren’t in our world.”

“No, no way. Not even close.”

“Did you see the General? Or anyone?”

“Nope. It’s just us.”

“Okay, so I guess we’ve reached a dead-end.” Preston folded his hands on the table. “Look, guys, I need to be honest with you. The folks I’ve called in aren’t going to like your story very much, but I believe you. We’ve seen our fair share of strange things around here.”

“What kind of strange things?” Sam asked. “Lights flickering, smell of sulphur?”

“The lights, yes, but not the smell. Why?”

“Let’s just say that we’ve seen our fair share of strange things too.”

“Like?”

“Well, ghouls on our world are a lot meaner. They take human form and…” Dean recalled Sam’s paled face after those ghouls had drained him of blood all those years ago. “They killed our brother just to get revenge on our dad.”

“You only have to worry about the ferals here, or the ones who’ll rob you.”

“We’re not worried about him,” Sam assured Preston.

“Actually, we are, Sam,” said Dean. That sly voice, that careless attitude. Did Sam not notice that?

“You two need to know something, then,” said Preston. “The General’s given the Minutemen a fresh start, and the citizens of the Commonwealth are under our protection. _All_ of its citizens. Don’t go believing the lies people tell about ghouls. It’s nothing more than a health issue. They’re still people.”

“Until they’re not?” Dean asked.

“Even when they’re not. They’re just aggressive. Like a raider, who typically isn’t a ghoul. We meet aggression with a solid defense, but we don’t judge people based on those things, at least that’s what the General and those of us close to her want to help the Commonwealth believe. Any number of things can make a person aggressive and unreasonable. You can bet that if the General had word of a cure for whatever makes people go feral, she’d make sure the whole of the Commonwealth had it.”

Sam gave Dean a hard look of reproach. Just as Dean considered both it and the words of Preston, a siren sounded.

The town was under attack.


	3. .unwelcome party. | .sam.

.unwelcome party.

.sam.

 

Sam had expected Preston to tell them to wait in the room while he and the others attended to the danger. This was protocol back home, some kind of warped host/guest etiquette, or a passive way of telling someone they were actually a prisoner.

This was not home.

“Come with me.” Preston had his strange gun again in the blink of an eye, and barged into a room filled with arms and ammunition. “You got guns where you’re from?”

Dean had already picked up a pistol, something a little different from some of the odd, dubious pieces Sam had noticed holstered on the townspeople. “Yeah, we got ’em.”

“Ten millimeter, good choice,” said Preston.

Sam spotted a shotgun. “We need range or stopping power?”

“Not sure.”

Sam grabbed the same make of pistol as Dean, and the shotgun he’d spotted. They loaded the empty weapons and hurried after Preston, who had a cautious jog and was receiving a shouted update from Hancock.

“Did he just say ‘super mutants’?” Dean had to shout to compete with the piercing siren, which sat close to the door they’d exited.

“Did he?”

“This way!” Preston had less of a cautious jog and more of an urgency in his pace, and he, Hancock, and the brothers sprinted through the town, leaping over crumbling curbs and thick, untended weeds. “The ramparts. Take cover and don’t shoot wildly.”

Sam and his brother nodded.

Hancock slammed the button to the stairwell door with the heel of his fist, and the four ran upstairs to join guards, one of whom had already been grazed by a bullet.

The sturdy ramparts had several places to take cover. Sam and Dean chose a spot as a turret hummed to life overhead. Between the sirens, shouting, and chugging miniguns, verbal communication would have to wait.

Sam leaned to get a visual through the open, paneless window.

Hulking masses of wan green and yellow emerged through the eastern cluster of trees. The super mutants tromped slowly toward them, confidently shielded by their massive, ironically named miniguns.

Sam ducked behind cover as another one of those guns sputtered to life. He met Dean’s eyes, which were full of the same reserved terror Sam felt, then looked to Preston and Hancock, who remained calm in spite of what approached.

The roof shook from an explosion, and shadows of falling debris crossed the wall. The chugging above them ceased, though the siren continued to wail.

“D’you hear that?” shouted Hancock, and Preston stilled to listen.

_…blip-blip-blip-blip…_

Another minigun started up.

“Don’t tell me—” Preston risked a look, then quickly ducked down.

“Something’s beeping,” Sam told him.

Hancock rushed to the next open view, the one with the fewest bullet holes in the opposing wall.

“Suicider!” he shouted.

Preston lifted his gun and directed it out his window. “All eyes on the lookout for a Suicider! Take him down before he reaches the outer perimeter!”

“What’s the outer perimeter?” Sam hadn’t seen anything indicating an area like this when they’d entered.

“It’s—” Preston took a shot. “Too much to explain now. Hit him before he makes it past the marked tree!”

Dean chanced a look, and narrowly missed a round of bullets. “What happens if we don’t?”

“The mini-nuke in his hand takes out this section of wall, and us with it.”

With _oh fuck_ expressions exchanged, the brothers took aim despite the rain of bullets, and fired on the gunners in front. Dean’s target lost his skull and became a fountain of blood before falling to the ground with its hot gun. Sam hit his guy in the shoulder, causing him to reel, which only created a minor pause in his assault. The mutant’s gun sped up and resurrected, until a soldier brought him down with their rifle.

Something howled, like a deep brass instrument. A pack of monstrous dogs charged ahead of the remaining super mutants, who took cover behind trees and lobbed oafish, yet horrifying threats in gravelly voices that only added to the din of—

The sky blinked white. The ramparts shuddered with a thunderous _boom_ that consumed the battle. The group’s immediate opponents let out excited, bloodthirsty roars of approval as the dead branches around them shook. The temperature rose, but Sam had no way of telling if the explosion or his adrenaline was the cause.

What was that _smell_? A storm? Burning?

_Is that what a nuke smells like?_ Did a wall elsewhere in town go down?

The beeping drew closer.

“There he is!” Hancock shouted.

“Leave the dogs!” Preston ordered. “Take down that Suicider!”

Dean pulled his trigger again. “Which one is he?”

“The one with the most determination.”

Sam set his sights on the Suicider, until horror filled his eyes. A red light in the chain-wrapped Suicider’s hand blinked with each beep, and considering the size of the super mutant’s hand, the thing it carried, that _mini-nuke_ , was _huge_.

“If we hit the bomb?” said Sam, after unloading a bullet into the air just beside the Suicider’s head.

“It goes boom.” Preston fired, missed. “And it better go boom before it makes it past that marked tree.”

“So if we hit the bomb _now_ —”

“The rest of them go, yes.”

The four of them aimed, fired, missed. A soldier near Sam got grazed on the face, but kept going, and their returning fire staggered the Suicider, but not enough to do anything.

“Someone get on the tree line!” Preston cranked his weapon.

_But the Suicider isn’t—_

It fell to the ground, its skull as cracked as Dean’s first kill. The chains restraining it went lax. The remaining super mutants fanned out in the woods, while the hounds snarled at the ramparts’ feet. The beeping continued, dominating the hailstorm of bullets hurtling into the concrete and the battle that raged elsewhere in town.

“Hold your fire!” said Preston.

Sam ducked back into cover. “What’s going on?”

“Look where he landed, Sam,” Dean said.

Sam didn’t have to risk his cover and check. Dean’s tone and Preston’s order made immediate sense: the Suicider’s bomb was beyond the marked tree. Active.

“Whaddya say, Preston?” said Hancock. “Move the fight down the wall a little? Ain’t no way these goons are getting past that door, not unless someone opens it. It’s a powered lock.”

Sam had seen the door after Hancock let them into the ramparts. It was made of a thick steel, and despite the pronounced physical strength of these super mutants, it was unlikely that they could defeat the door with anything other than that mini-nuke.

“Any chance these mini-nukes could disrupt the power?” Sam asked. “I mean, obviously if it hits the grid, but any kind of electro-magnetic issues?”

“I honestly don’t know,” answered Preston, “but I don’t want to find out. Hancock, you and Winchesters take that end of the wall. Soldiers, with me on the opposite end. Let’s split ‘em up and keep as far from the range of that thing as possible. Move out.”

This was no time for grudges or biases to affect judgment, and Sam was thankful his older brother hadn’t made some kind of bigoted remark about getting assigned to Hancock. It didn’t take long for the super mutants to catch on to their move, and the bullets followed them down the line, but like Preston predicted, they split their focus. Lasers and bullets serving as their backdrop, the trio took down super mutant after super mutant. Preston’s group appeared to take down their split as well, leaving only the dogs, who howled and growled at the fates of their masters.

The battle wasn’t over yet.

As Hancock led them down the bullet-riddled corridor, Dean asked, “So how do we take down the dogs? Anything special? Salt, iron?”

“Bullets,” said Hancock. In this brief respite from the fight, the tension between them resurfaced.

“Yeah, but any special kind of bullets? Silver?”

“The kind that leave through the barrel.”

“Hey man, or—”

“Sorry about him.” Sam put a warning hand on Dean’s arm, which was shrugged off and met with a groan. “Where we’re from, sometimes ordinary bullets don’t work.”

“Well, seeing as you’re helping us out here, I think I’ll forget what he almost said.”

Sam nodded his thanks.

“We need to funnel those hounds,” Preston said, once they rejoined. “Get them into a line and just take ’em down one by one.”

Hancock crossed his arms. “Just what are you suggesting?”

Preston said nothing, and eyed Sam and Dean. “One of you two ready to use that shotgun?”

Sam had almost forgotten the shotgun. He’d left it in his first foxhole. “I got it. Dean, you good on ammo?” Dean nodded.

Preston gave them a nod. “We’re going to lock ourselves in here, and open the outer door. But not before dropping a couple of grenades out the window.”

“Anything we need to worry about?” Sam asked.

“Just stand back. Sturges assured me the walls could handle this when he drafted the plans. As long as we keep away from the door, we won’t risk damaging it. Any stragglers, we shoot. The rest of you? I need you to lock down the other sections of these walls. Make sure no one else but us are at risk. Got it?” The soldiers nodded, and were dismissed to carry out their orders. “Think we can do this?”

“It’s crazy,” said Hancock. “I like it.”

“Can’t we just shoot them out the window?” Dean didn’t seem thrilled to do this, but then again, he never loved supernatural canines.

“We’re on a slight overhang,” said Preston. “Keeps the bad guys from being able to scale the wall.”

Well, Sam had the shotgun, and it looked like Hancock had one too, so at least they could protect Dean from the dogs until absolutely necessary.

Not that Dean would ever thank Sam for something like that. Part of the job.

Preston handed Hancock one of two grenades he kept tucked away. “Ready?”

“On your count, boss.”

“Stand back,” Preston said, and Sam and Dean did so.

Preston and Hancock worked in sync, dropping the grenades gently below, and making a mad dash away from the window, just in case that Sturges guy was wrong.

“Wait!” Sam shouted. “We have to get out of here—”

The first grenade went off, and the hounds reacted, though from the sound of it, one most definitely bit the dust.

“Why didn’t the other go off?” Hancock asked.

But he and the others soon came to the same realization Sam had come to.

Something went horribly, awfully wrong, and now there was a stray live grenade out there somewhere, probably blasted away from where it fell, and potentially beside the mini-nuke _that was in range of the wall_.

“Hey, guys?” Dean pointed out the window. One of the hounds had picked up the grenade. Growling, it bolted between the wall and a dead mutant, one that had fallen near the Suicider. The hound pranced and dashed, trying to get someone’s attention about the horrors its pack and its masters had suffered, and after one _bark_ came the gory _boom_.

All four hit the floor, instinct taking over logic, since they would’ve been dead if that grenade had been close enough to detonate the nuke.

“We’re not dead,” Sam said to Dean, and the two brothers got to their feet, dust falling in a silence punctuated only by the siren and the beeping mini-nuke. All four of them peered outside. Nothing but smoke and guts and the bleakness of the wasteland greeted them. The hounds were dead.

“I think it’s over, but we’ve still got to take care of that bomb.” Preston took off his hat and patted it a few times; Hancock did the same to his tricorn hat. “Sam, Dean, thank you for your help. You two need to evacuate this area and wait for me in the center of town.”

“We’re not gonna leave you behind,” said Dean. “What can we do?”

“Honestly? We’re gonna need some duct tape.”

“Say what now?”

Sam screwed up his face. “Duct tape?”

“To make sure the button the Suicider pressed stays down until we can safely detonate.”

“Makes sense,” Sam offered to Dean. “There’s not exactly a bomb squad.”

Preston seemed to consider the idea of such a squad. “We’re gonna send one of the robots in. They’ve got the know-how to work with these things. Come on.”

And so Sam and his brother evacuated the ramparts, whisked away into the center of a town that took a lot of bullets, and narrowly escaped having any casualties.

But one thing was certain, as their eyes traveled over the townsfolk, some of them, it appeared, who were members of the Companions, judging by the way Preston and Hancock greeted them.

“This is a land of monsters, Sam,” Dean whispered.

And Sam, staring at the robots, the ghoul citizens, and apparently, the sole super mutant citizen, understood why Dean said that, but couldn’t quite agree. “I have a feeling it’s not as clear cut as that, Dean.”

To that, Dean said nothing.


	4. .wild blue yonder. | .piper.

Piper Wright stared at the fractured screen of her terminal. Was it gone? All of it? Off to the same world those Winchesters came from?

The story wasn’t important now, not with Blue off in the…wild _blue_ yonder. _There’s a headline there somewhere,_ she thought. The terminal though, this was a gift from Blue, a special thing that had let Piper set up a Sanctuary Hills off-shoot of _Publick Occurrences_. The Sanctuary Hills office even had another reporter, Jun Long, who’d come to Piper more than depressed, and had started writing human interest pieces to cope. After Marcy Long had exacerbated Piper’s patience, Piper gave Jun’s writing sample a shot, and, well, he had a knack for the written word.

She still had trouble getting someone other than herself over to Goodneighbor. Copies of the paper made it over there, but people who wanted to be reporters _didn’t_. Distribution wasn’t ever a real problem, in terms of demand. It was securing the distribution routes. Two weeks ago, she’d finally closed a deal with the provisioner who ran supplies to Egret Marina (well, technically, it was Egret _Tours_ Marina, but what tours would they exactly be making anymore?). It was a tough deal, since Blue had been smart about managing the provisioners. Few would be assigned to long routes, which meant every settlement was a stop, where supplies or messages were exchanged. It resulted in a faster network, just because it kept the provisioners from getting too tired or placed in too much danger. But for Piper? It meant paying _each_ provisioner on the relay, which also meant it would take a _lot_ of caps to get the paper where it needed to go. At least with Egret, the North-South Line was nearly established. Nearby settlements could get the papers from a settlement on the distribution route, for now. All she needed was an East-West Route, and then she could work on all the little branches.

…If she could stay focused on anything for just one freakin’ second.

She popped a gum drop into her mouth and chewed, staring at that screen. She _had_ backups of her stories, and had been training Jun to do the same, but it was hard not to look at the gift Blue had given her and to draw some parallels between its state and Blue’s actual predicament.

Which was that she was gone.

Somewhere.

And now they had these two (rather attractive) guys who knew nada about the Commonwealth in her place.

Piper rapped her pencil against their file. While waiting for the search team to radio back, the Winchester brothers had been getting a Commonwealth 101 from Codsworth, and Piper had been getting a Winchesters 101 from eavesdropping on the sessions.

She’d been at odds with herself over whether or not to publish this living story. Advertising to the Commonwealth that Blue was gone would put every settlement at risk. Advertising a portal to another world (if the Winchesters weren’t synth replacements making the whole thing up) would put both worlds at risk. Piper had been pretty peeved when Danse had been invited to the Companions’ meeting, wherein Blue’s disappearance and the Winchesters’ appearance had been discussed at length. The Brotherhood of Steel didn’t need to know any of it, but if the Commonwealth as a whole _did_ , then the Brotherhood, simply by being here in the Commonwealth, would know it too.

She had a duty to transparency. That was the whole freakin’ point of being a reporter.

But also, like, screw the stupid Brotherhood?

She gnawed on another hard gum drop and grumbled.

“Is…is everything okay, Piper?” Jun stood in the doorway to her office, eyes shied down and hidden beneath the shadow of his black hair. He held a folder, not unlike the one on Piper’s desk, to his chest.

“Yeah, Jun, just thinking about this deadline and this dead terminal.”

“I…I’ve got a proof to show you.”

Piper smiled. “You did everything?”

“Everything…for your story. I just…need to solve a layout problem with my interview.”

Piper held out her hand for the proffered folder. “Let me see.” The proof was clean; Jun was quite the typesetter. It helped that Sturges had improved upon the reclaimed printer a caravan had been trying to sell as _junk_ , but Jun had a knack for this part of publishing too. This looked better than any paper Piper had printed yet. _Soon he’ll be competing with those old Boston Bugles._ She had a few framed editions of those hanging on these very walls. Well, one had been knocked off in the blast during that super mutant raid, but it had a spot if she got around to finding the nail and putting it back up.

“There’s the issue.” She pointed to his interview. “Move _this_ up… _there_. That paragraph can be tweaked to fit… _here_.”

“What about the resulting blank rectangle… _here_?”

Piper grinned. When Jun got going, a happier version of himself came out, perhaps the version that had existed before things went wrong in Quincy, but that was a story she was still investigating. “Maybe…something? Do we have any small blurbs? ‘Brahmin unstuck from rock near Lexington.’ ”

“What about selling the space?”

“You do what now?”

“We need caps to push the paper farther. Maybe we could fund the push by asking caravans or merchants to pay for space in our paper?”

“I dunno, Jun. Information has to stay free. Wouldn’t want people to think caps are writing our stories.”

“We could issue a disclaimer. ‘This space paid for by…So and So. Their caps are used only to fund distribution costs. _Publick Occurrences_ does not endorse this merchant, their products, or their views.’ But shorter, so we don’t waste space on all that type.”

“Hmm…” Piper leaned back in her chair and twisted the ends of her wavy black hair with her pencil. “If you could calculate the cost of giving advertisements their own page, so that it doesn’t flow with news copy, and get back to me in an hour? Then we can go from there.”

Jun smiled. “Alright, Piper. I’ll do that.”

“Thanks, Jun.”

He scurried off…and then came back before Piper could even drum a single measure of a tune with her pencil.

“Um, Piper?”

“Yeah, Jun?”

“Sam Winchester is here to see you.”

She smirked, and almost tipped too far in her chair. _Guess there’s my answer,_ she thought. She’d write the Winchester story first, then later publish a follow-up once Blue was home, something about the whole swap, and then maybe, if they figured out how to send those guys home and fix the portal issue, talk about the portal. _Maybe even talk about the importance of not opening one again, get the People to think about the moral issues._ She trusted the folks of the Commonwealth to make the right choice. She just had to make sure _they_ had the information, not the Big Factions.

“Tell him I’ll meet him out there in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Or maybe she had to let the People decide about the portal before it was closed. Maybe she had to let the People decide who made the decision about the portal. _If there even is a portal._ Sure, her heart was with the Minutemen, who seemed to be about the People. But what if the People didn’t choose the Minutemen? What if they gave the Brotherhood the responsibility of dealing with this whole debacle? Was that her duty? To tell them what they wanted to know, or to tell them what they didn’t know, whether or not they wanted to know it?

The latter. It was always the latter. Even if Blue were in danger.

_Well, at least meet with the Winchester. You need the information either way, Piper._

Piper shrugged on her red leather trenchcoat before heading downstairs. It was part of her look, her brand, and if people saw her too often without it, then they’d remember other details about her, like her face, or her voice, though Mayor McDonough had assured her that her voice was pretty well known already.

_Publick Occurrences_ lived in one of Sanctuary Hills’ smaller buildings. It boasted a good view of the street, as well as the wall. Not just the walls of her neighbors, but THE wall. No matter where Piper went lately, it seemed like she was destined to be indebted to a wall. If it weren’t for the fact that it was actually pretty devastating to have her particular section of wall shaken by an explosion until a couple of windows shattered, along with her precious terminal screen, she would’ve admitted to getting used to this whole “Piper and Wall” business. Though, it’d be pretty great if the paper could help create a world where wall materials made homes, not defenses, but that was another story for another time.

She hopped down the steps to the lobby, a small, cramped room with a couch and some matching chairs. Were she to write about it, she’d call it _cozy_ , but probably not _accommodating_. The rest of this floor was devoted to a single occupant bathroom (with a proper toilet, because Blue had come across blueprints and materials for Vault-Tec plumbing), the counter with a hot plate and coffee pot that Jun insisted on calling a kitchen, and the best room ever aside from her office—the print room. It could get loud in there, once things were literally rolling, but it was a perfect kind of loudness, a white noise that excited Piper. Plus, Jun’s office was above it, so…yeah. His desk was the one that vibrated most when it was in full swing.

Of course, he spent time in there with it while it ran, so…yeah. Maybe it didn’t matter that much.

Jun was a pretty good employee too. He did everything. He was currently handing that handsome Winchester a steaming hot cup of coffee. He didn’t have to (well, he _had_ to, because this was _the_ story), but Piper wished she could find a proper assistant for _both_ of them, so Jun could focus on his career in journalism.

If this Sam guy couldn’t get home, maybe he’d be good at getting coffee and greeting guests? He seemed to be the more polite brother.

“Sam Winchester,” Piper said, causing the tall man to shift his eyes away from the door to the back room to her. “Piper Wright, Chief Editor. Tell me, what do you think of our little town here?”

“Uh, well…” Perfect. Caught him off his guard. “It’s nice, especially considering everything you guys went through.”

“Are you referring to the war or the super mutant raid earlier this week?”

“Um, both?”

“What did you think of the other towns you’ve seen here?”

“We’ve only been to the one we landed in.”

Piper narrowed her eyes at him. “Right, of course. So, Mr. Winchester.” She sat down across from him, which in a _cozy_ space like this, put her even closer to the bounds of his personal space. She didn’t mind being so intimidating. For all she knew, something _he_ did was the reason Blue was gone. “What brings you to Publick Occurrences today? Have some tidbits for our tip line, or…”

“How can it be a tip line if you don’t have phones?”

Piper played it cool, tried to pretend Sam didn’t just catch _her_ off guard. “It’s journalistic jargon, a reminder of a time before the war. Are you a big proponent of erasing history by erasing language, Mr. Winchester?”

“No, I—look, Ms. Wright, I just came here because part of what my brother and I used to do back…home…was read the newspaper and help people who were in trouble. I figured maybe you had some back issues we could read that would feel a little more like home for us.”

“Codsworth not homey enough for you? He was literally programmed to be a personal butler and volunteered to lend that programming to you.”

“No, it’s just…there’s something different about actually _holding_ something you can read, you know?”

She did. _Sly, Sam Winchester._ “Okay, okay, I… _might_ be able to grant access to some of our older issues…”

“In exchange for…?”

“Well, maybe you could tell me a little more about what you and your brother did back home. A one-on-one, for now. What did you want to be when you grew up?”

He chuckled, and a lock of his dark brown hair fell loose from his ear. “Well, actually, I wanted to be a lawyer.”

“Could you expand upon that? A lot, actually? Presume some of our readers have no idea what a lawyer is.” Piper barely knew what that meant herself, aside from some vague references in some not-burned texts she’d come across. They fought for people in court, but all Piper could picture was people arguing with each other the way that she argued with Danny Sullivan. There had to be more to it than that. She thought she’d overheard Blue tell Nick she was a lawyer in her former life, but Piper never followed up, not wanting to seem like she was purposefully eavesdropping, because that time, it had actually been an accident.

Sam saw through the question though, but he was a gentleman about it. “A lawyer is someone who advocates for another person in regard to the law. So…they might review or draft a contract, make sure that their client isn’t getting into any technical trouble by signing it, or if they’re taken to court, they try and fight for their innocence or freedom from liability or whatever the matter might be. As a lawyer, you’re this…I guess, trained representative who uses their words and savvy and ultimately, the law, to protect people from injustice.”

Okay, so maybe it was sort of like what Piper did with the paper. “Court. Interesting that you mention this.” She glanced at the terminal in the corner of the lobby. Good. Jun had also started recording a holotape of the conversation. “The Commonwealth hasn’t seen a proper courthouse since before the war. Do you think a court of law is necessary for a functioning government?”

“Absolutely.” He shook his head. “Wait, you don’t have any sort of justice system?”

“They shoot us, we shoot back.”

“But what about other actions? Theft? Breach of contract? Minor disagreements?”

“Diamond City has a jail, but mostly, we leave it to the voice of the People.”

“But that voice is sometimes the voice of a mob, not a voice of reason. What about something more objective?”

“Do you believe the law is objective?”

“I think at its heart, it tries to be, and we evolve it as we encounter new challenges.”

“Okay, good, good.” Actually, it was _bad, bad_ , because now Sam had given Piper a lot to personally reflect upon.

He chuckled in the small pause. “Wow. That was kind of refreshing, actually.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t think I’ve had a discussion like that since college.”

College. Now that was a sore subject in the Commonwealth. _College_ meant _Commonwealth Institute of Technology_ , which many speculated meant _Institute_. _Investigate that thread another time,_ Piper thought.

She nodded and moved on. “What do you spend most of your time discussing?”

“Hunting…and everything that tends to come with it.”

“Sources tell me you and your brother hunt ghouls. Care to comment on that?”

“What? No. Well, not this world’s idea of them. In our world, our ghouls are not human. They’re monsters.”

“People think ghouls are monsters here.”

“I mean in a more…supernatural sense.”

“Like ghosts?”

“In the same realm, yeah, but ghosts are different than ghouls.”

“Uh huh…”

Sam tilted his head. “Does this world have any mythology?”

“We’ve got our myths, but no one really believes in it when there’s things like _deathclaws_ and _behemoths_ and the _Institute_.”

“I hope that none of it’s true here, for your sake.”

“I suppose we all get our own demons and monsters, huh?”

“Yeah.”

A palpable silence. Piper wanted to use it, but it seemed that Sam just wanted to get the back issues and go. She called Jun in. “Jun, can you pull up…” She winked at Sam. “Let’s see, _two_ of earliest local issues for Sam?”

“Just two?” Jun clarified.

Piper looked at Sam, who begrudgingly understood the contract and nodded. “For now, just two. Thanks, Jun.” Once Jun was upstairs and pulling open the squeaky filing cabinet that held their back issues, Piper set her sights on Sam again. “So, tell me about your first supernatural hunt.”

Sam sighed, and told the story. For someone who came from a world where kids didn’t need to know the feeling of a pipe pistol in their palms, Sam didn’t get that luxury. He’d been younger than Nat when he’d started. As time went on, Piper realized that the Winchesters were a lot like the Wrights, but with a smaller age difference. If she could meet up with Dean, wow, could she ever press all the right buttons for information, since they probably shared the same buttons. Maybe Dean was one to watch, instead of press. Hearing about the Winchesters’ first hunt gave her a better sense of Sam’s buttons too, and now she had him talking about the basics of supernatural hunting.

“So the purer the iron,” Piper took the back issues from Jun’s hand, “the more effective it is on a spirit.”

Sam nodded. “But salting and burning the bones or anything their spirit is tied to works well too.”

“And this is why Dean is reported to have asked about special ammunition.”

“Right, because you can load a shell with salt, or make a bullet out of silver, and it’ll do whatever job you need to get done.”

“Which is to kill the supernatural entity?”

“Basically.”

“So going back to your ideas about law, how do you decide who gets to live or die?”

Stumped again. “Honestly? It’s kind of difficult at times. Sometimes, these things are just that, _things_. You know? They’re terrorizing a town and killing people. But sometimes, they’re just struggling with having become a monster. Some of them start as humans, and are turned, usually by a bite, or possession.”

“But in a ghost’s case, you and your brother believe that ghosts just don’t belong in your realm, even though they are definitely human.”

“Right. They have to move on.”

“So you shoot them to get them out of your realm.”

“Well, when you put it like that—”

“What would you want people to know about you and your brother, if they thought you didn’t belong here?”

He gave her a resigned sigh. “That we’re just like you, working hard to save people from things that wanna hurt them. Sometimes that means making a hard choice, and sometimes that means making a sacrifice.” He tried to sip out of his empty coffee cup. “Are we done?”

“For now.” Piper stood and handed Sam the issues. “These don’t leave town. I’m trying to build a collection, and those are my back ups of my back ups’ back ups.”

He nodded. “Got it. Thanks.”

“No problem. See you soon?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Thanks, Mr. Winchester.”

Once the door was closed, Piper grabbed a smoke, then a cup of coffee, and enjoyed both outside, where a coming rain threatened to end that enjoyment. Jun joined her outside with his own coffee.

“He’s telling the truth, Jun. I can feel it. Which means if Old Longfellow and his team don’t radio back with good news…”

“I know. I have that feeling too.” He sipped his drink, then held out his hand, because he also felt the very real sprinkle of rain too. They instinctively backed up against the wall, where the overhanging roof offered some shelter. “I calculated the cost of adding an advertisement page, and I don’t think we can do it right now, even if we sell the space.”

She exhaled a cloud of smoke, her eyes focused on Sam. “Damn. Well, we’ll have to find our stuck Brahmin story.”

“What about ‘Preston Garvey Defuses Mini-Nuke With Duct Tape’?”

She snorted coffee. “I love it! Raids are still commonplace enough to know a super mutant could’ve gotten here, and it shows the strength of the town while not bullshitting about our defenses. _He_ might not like it though.”

“He has a sense of humor. I think he’ll approve.”

“His approval doesn’t matter, remember.”

“Oh, right.”

As the rain picked up, Sam ducked beneath a shanty and met up with his brother. There was something about his story that needed to be told, something that could be told now while Piper figured out the ethics of the telling the full story.

_That’s it!_

“We need to sell the Winchesters’ story.”

“About the portal?”

“No, about their _job_. You caught some of the interview. What do you think?”

“I don’t really believe it. Ghosts? If ghosts were real, then…maybe I could talk to him again.”

A raindrop flew into Piper’s eye somehow. She pulled her cap down. “Not _that_ part, the heroics part.”

“I guess it did sound interesting. Kind of like those comics.”

“Exactly! And do you know how _in demand_ those comics are? Grognak, the Unstoppables, hell, have you ever heard the Silver Shroud’s solo story out of Goodneighbor? Imagine if these Winchesters give us the rights to their story! I mean, if they don’t even _need_ it over here, what’s the harm? We get their story, you add your dose of magic, and we suddenly have the money to distribute out to, I don’t know, Kingsport! Far Harbor! And do you know how much my sister loves these kinds of things? If she knew we were publishing a story like this, she might just stay and work for her own press. Oh! Maybe she would even open up her own fiction publishing house and we could start circulating proper books! She’d barely need to leave Diamond City, and we’d have so many _fresh_ books to read!”

“Marcy would like that.”

“Would she? No offense, Jun, but sometimes it’s hard to think Marcy likes anything.”

“It’s just her…her way of coping.”

“Well…okay, so then let’s explore this then, for her sake too? What do we have to lose?”

“Just time.”

“Which we’re constantly losing anyhow.” Piper flicked her cigarette. “Alright! Now if—wait.”

Myra was heading their way. She spotted her, and gave her the nod and the wave that they’d all been waiting for. Old Longfellow had checked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will see more of Piper and Jun working on the newspaper in an upcoming (Fallout only) fic. I prefer to write fics in their entirety before publishing, so it may take some time, but I'm very thrilled about what I have thus far and am excited to explore the Fallout 'verse in this perspective. Stay tuned!


	5. .the plot thickens!  and coagulates!  and now it's lumpy and ruined!.

.the plot thickens! and coagulates! and now it’s lumpy and ruined!.

.deacon. 

* * *

 

Deacon InsertLastNameHere—yeah, someone had actually repeated that to him once—knew a liar when he saw one, and this Dean Winchester was one helluva liar. He’d make a good agent, if it weren’t for the fact that every time Deacon had made a point of listening to him, he seemed to hate anything non-human. Who the hell defined what made someone _human_ anyway? Deacon’d have to do what he could to make sure the Brotherhood didn’t sweep up Winchester the Elder first, and the answer was obvious—get Winchester the Younger to take the road to Splitsville and travel with Deacon. Ye Olde Divide and Conquer was a routine more suited to someone like Carrington or Desdemona, but Deacon could cede to their ways at times, since what they wanted was often much better than the sort of tactic that people—sorry, Winchester the Elder, they’re people—like Glory would prefer.

But Charmer? Did Deacon really care that much about getting her back?

Well, kind of, sort of, yeah.

And if that meant making sure that these brothers weren’t sent by the big eye in the sky or the other big eye in the…where was it, underground?…then Deacon had to do it, though he figured the Brotherhood had no clue about this—yet—until that _wonderful_ and _delightful_ Paladin Danse got a chance to report back. Yeah, Deacon was on that duty too—keeping Danse indirectly distracted by manipulating others to distract him with missions, because Danse was savvy and Danse was onto Deacon in a way that made him more bloodbug and less Brotherhood.

So yeah, the Winchesters? Probably Institute spies. If not, then they really were from another world and holy shit, could the Institute _not_ find out about that. Hell, Deacon worried about what Tinker Tom would do when he found out. _Road trip!_

But what was up with that Castiel dude they kept talking about? Because that was the main thing that made Deacon worry; the whole brotherly thing the Winchesters had going on could just be part of the programming. Castiel was a character that hadn’t been brought up in public; only whispered between Winchesters.

Well, Deacon had to make that change.

He flagged down Piper, who followed Myra into the not-so-covert-bunker—well, it wasn’t a bunker, just the most fortified building that served as Charmer’s— _ahem_ , the _General’s_ —home base, but Deacon thought _bunker_ sounded infinitely more _cool_.

“Yeah?” said Piper, who also had bloodbug in her…uh, _blood_ , but in the good way…sometimes. She was a good smoke-break buddy. Fun, actually, when they tried to one-up each other in ways to get information.

Deacon took her aside, away from those who filed in. “So the older one, Castiel, was it?”

“Casty who?”

“The older one? Castiel Winchester?”

“His name is Dean.”

“Someone told me he heard his name was Castiel.”

Piper elevatored her eyes. “Not gonna work this time, Deacon.”

“I tried. Anyway, it’s not like it’s ethical for you to name your sources, right?”

She chuckled softly and followed the train in.

The conference room was filled, and all the good seats were taken. That was fine with Deacon. He liked the spot by the door. He could put his back against the doorframe, scope out the whole room, scan down the hallway, and still take cover if need be. Preston sat at the head of the table, opposite Deacon, preferring the back-to-the-wall-and-eyes-out method, but he was surrounded and farther in the room, so he was really at a disadvantage. The Winchesters didn’t get a seat at the table, but they lurked in the back, shadowed by Strong, who had become obsessed with sniffing them. All Deacon could smell were the huddled bodies, and whatever his wall-partner was macking with. MacCready, stuffing a mutfruit down his throat. God, the guy drove Deacon nuts, because he was precisely the kind of guy Deacon used to be, except MacCready’s way of turning clean was to pal around with Charmer and make snide remarks whenever she did something good. At least Deacon _believed_ in helping others.

Static gently crackled the orange radio. _“Everyone there yet? Over.”_ It was Longfellow, oldest and most badass of the Companions. If Deacon believed in the cheesy clichés he used on people, he’d totally vote for Longfellow as Awesome Stand-In Dad. Guy was a pro.

“Roger. Still working on it. Standby.” Preston looked to Deacon, who gave confirmation that all had officially entered. “All necessaries are here, over.”

_“Roger. No sign of the Cap’n. Did a sweep of your route and theirs. Dogmeat caught a scent that ended at the point of contact, over.”_ Desdemona would hate to listen to this, being all up and up on her military communication studies, but Deacon was happy that they at least encoded the location in their transmission. They could’ve used code names for everyone, though, and yeah, even the dog needed one.

“Roger. Any other leads? Over.”

_“Roger. Ada and Curie are taking readings and all that, well, when I’m not using Ada as a radio. Found something strange, a pointy silver rod, or sword, shinier than the usual crap around here. Definitely a weapon. Nothing else. Thinking we’ll stay another day or two and come back. Over.”_

“Roger. What do they think? She gone? Over.”

There was a pause before the radio crackled again. _“Roger. She’s gone. Those boys are telling the truth. Over.”_

Those “boys” shared looks that did not go unnoticed by a few of the other bloodbugs in the bunch. _So who’s this Castiel?_ Deacon thought.

“Roger. Check in tomorrow at 0800 for new orders. Over.”

_“Wilco. Out.”_

Okay, so the Minutemen weren’t perfect with their voice procedure, but Preston’s order was a good one, and the imperfection was probably making Danse squirm too, so there was that immediate and very beautiful benefit. Still, the longer Old Longfellow and his team were out there sending transmissions, the more likely they could be discovered.

“You should pull them out tomorrow,” said Hancock. “Or send more over there. They’re sitting ducks for anyone listening.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” said Preston. “For now, we’ve got more important matters to discuss. Mainly, how do we get that portal back open, and how do we get everyone back to where they should be?”

Sam kept giving Dean the glare that only a brother who knew something that needed saying could give.

MacCready slurped the last of his mutfruit. “I’ve got some ideas if we need some caps.”

“Might I have a say, Mister Garvey?” said Codsworth. He was looking rather dapper lately, since he’d put on that bowler hat Charmer had brought home for him.

“We should bring the Brotherhood in on this,” Danse said, of course. Deacon considered a snide retort, maybe something about the Brotherhood’s mandatory codpiece hiding Danse’s firm love for the Brotherhood, but such a comment came with an extraordinary risk: Danse might just start showing up in power armor all the time again, and everyone had been happy that he wasn’t clanking around for these conferences. Danse hid a lot of himself in that Brotherhood getup, more than that luscious head of hair, more than Danse himself realized. Besides, it was the Brotherhood Deacon hated, not Danse. He had to remember that.

But Deacon’s retort never would’ve been heard anyway, because nearly everyone had their own ideas about what to do. Piper scribbled away in that weird shorthand Deacon really ought to study, and the Winchesters eyed Strong’s huffing and puffing with extreme lean-back-into-anyone-or-anything caution.

Preston stood. “Enough.”

The room quieted. _Well done, Garvey._

Preston looked at Piper, who took a while to notice the look because she must’ve had one of those inspirational moments that she would brag about, but not explicitly talk about, over a smoke later.

“Uh, you want to hear from me?” she said, through a mouthful of gum drops that Deacon had not realized she’d eaten.

“Sharing is caring, Piper.” Deacon held out his hand. That was no good at all. He should have noticed her piling the treats into her mouth.

She gave him a doleful look and shook the empty box. “Um, well,” she said after swallowing and sucking on her teeth, “I think we should…ask them what they think, and maybe figure out who this Castiel person is?”

Preston begrudgingly nodded. _Knowingly_ nodded. Well holy shit, maybe the Minutemen _weren’t_ just a glorified police force. “Dean, Sam, I think you two should take this.”

Dean took the lead and tried to step around Strong—no, forward, no, around, _nope_ , other side, nope, around, _there_. He found his way and stepped right beside Hancock. Yeah, having a super mutant around who talked about fighting and eating people was actually kinda scary, but Deacon had to change his mind about super mutants the same way he’d changed his mind about synths. Watching Dean stumble around, balancing his bigotry on one hand and his necessity to just be in this room and try not to piss off his hosts, amused Deacon. He had once been that bumbling asshole too, and he needed to really mock himself through Dean.

But Winchester the Elder recovered quickly from the little problem, which had really been caused by all the damn people in one room—fire hazard!—and not Strong’s physical size. “Cas—Castiel, he’s like a brother to us. That thing your team found? That’s his. We can’t leave him behind if he’s here somewhere.”

“There’s weird metal shit all over the Wasteland,” Hancock said. “How can you know for sure it’s _his_ weird metal shit?”

Sam stepped in. With his height, he had no problem. “It’s his.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s…his people use that type of weapon. It has properties that make it lethal against all sorts of entities that otherwise have few or no weaknesses.”

“Are our people in danger just by being in contact with it?” asked Preston.

“No,” said Dean. “Though if they come across anything weird from our world, they probably shouldn’t use it.”

Deacon couldn’t let that pass. “What’re the chances some of our critters swapped?”

“Hard to say,” said Sam. “Every time something like this has happened, it’s been a targeted thing.”

“This a regular thing for you, is it?” That was Cait, the fair pink and freckled fighter who was never afraid to crank the heat on a conversation. “So you’re telling us that you’ve had your arses in other realms, are ya? I don’t know about you, but that seems like somethin’ worth mentionin’ at a _first_ meetin’.”

Chatter erupted again, making it difficult for Deacon to suss out what Preston knew and whatever new information the Winchesters would spill, if they ever decided to defend themselves.

Preston called everyone to order.

“Sam and Dean’s world is not like ours,” he began. “They don’t owe us any explanations for that. If it doesn’t affect the safety of the General, it’s not important to us. What is important is making sure we get everyone back to their respective homes, and all you need to know is that this Castiel could help us re-open that portal, and he’s not going to do it without the Winchesters.” That seemed to calm everyone, knowing that someone out there—an _unknown_ someone, but still, a _someone_ —had a potential solution to their problem. Deacon kinda hated that. The “sit back and wait for someone else to fix it” mentality often resulted in a lot of people sitting around and wasting their lives. Hell, that was one of the reasons the Railroad existed: no one else had acted. Deacon didn’t doubt there were people in the Institute whose stomach turned when synths were first mentioned, but those people kept thinking the problem would go away. That someone else would find a solution. _Cowards._

“We all settled?” Preston sat back down, and waited for the others who had seats to return to them as well. He was doing a pretty good job without Charmer. If it weren’t for the fact that Deacon actually _liked_ Charmer (and that Desdemona thought Charmer was the best chance of taking down the Institute, etcetera etcetera), Deacon might’ve written her off, dusted his hands of this whole thing, and left the Minutemen to Preston Garvey as originally planned. He felt a little better about the organization once he’d finally gotten to know everyone involved and what they were doing. Having better chances to root around Minutemen files and eavesdrop on conversations had helped too.

“Good.” Preston folded his hands. “I think our best course of action is to make sure we find Castiel before anyone else, particularly because of his talents. Paladin Danse, I hope you can understand my hesitation in bringing you in on this, and why I ultimately decided it was best.”

“Understood. The Brotherhood’s objective to take down the Institute is much more pressing, and given your General’s standing with them, I believe it is more prudent to focus on getting her home safely.”

The Brotherhood. _The ‘Brotherhood.’_ Deacon wondered if that Elder Maxson guy had any inkling that the Railroad was having Charmer double-cross everyone. _I need to get them a message via dead drop._ Or maybe not. It was risky—it was always risky, but there was no way Deacon could know that this wasn’t the one time— _the one time_ —a dead drop was intercepted by the wrong party. The Institute couldn’t know she was gone. In many ways, she was a shield that kept their salivating maws at bay.

“Exactly,” Preston continued. “That is our top priority. That’s why all other agendas must be put on hold. I want two search parties to hit up Diamond City and Goodneighbor. Piper, you and Danse take Dean down to meet Nick.”

“What?” Piper looked up from her notes, clearly unable to abandon _her_ agenda. “Oh, got it.”

“Hancock, you, MacCready, and Cait head down to Goodneighbor, get in touch with some of your contacts.”

“You got it, boss,” Hancock said.

“Deacon, you and Sam head with them, until it comes time to get into Goodneighbor. Can’t have you arriving together, and would rather that strangers arrive _after_ the people who are asking about one. I want no confusion.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Deacon answered. A very familiar plan.

“Good. Everyone else stays here. I’ll be heading to the Castle. If all else fails, meet back at Starlight one week from now. We leave immediately after Longfellow checks in.”

The meeting ended.

Deacon pretended to be polite, to wait for his turn to leave, but he was waiting for Piper, who seemed to be scribbling again, and also seemed to notice Deacon was waiting for her. The Winchesters shuffled through, followed by Preston, then Strong, and behind them, Hancock.

“Smoke break?” he muttered to them as he passed. While everyone had turned to the right in the hallway, Hancock turned left.

Deacon looked at Piper, who shrugged, and the two of them followed Hancock out the southeast exit. Hancock doled out the cigarettes this time, and the three lit up and leaned.

“You know, a free cigarette doesn’t change the fact that you are still number two on my list,” said Piper.

“Of least favorite mayors, gotcha.”

“Or McDonoughs.” Hancock gaped at that, but Piper just smirked and inhaled.

“So, Pipes.” Hancock exhaled a plume. “You think you can handle those handsome devils all by your lonesome?”

“Well, sure, I mean, if you call _that_ handsome, um, but hey, we all know I’m in charge of Danse because he’s like…wholesome, or whatever, and Dean isn’t.” She flicked her cigarette. “Anyway, I’d bet anything that this plan of Preston’s is actually yours.”

“Why thank you, Piper, it is.” Hancock made no indication that he had gotten the plan from Deacon. “You throw Dean and I together, you might end up with a dead Winchester or a serious shortage of chems around here. I don’t think that’s gonna work very well. He’s more of the Brotherhood type, so let him get cozy with Danse, who gets to babysit while you and Nick do all the real work.”

“And I get to ‘babysit’ the kid brother?” Deacon flicked his ashes Hancock’s way, all part of the act. “Thanks for that, Hancock, that’s real swell of you.”

“Hey, he’s better to deal with, if you ask me. Might even be worth introducing him to our mutual friends if he gets stuck here.”

“I second that,” said Piper. “He’s got experience. You should read the interview he gave me earlier.”

“I have no friends,” said Deacon.

“She knows, man,” said Hancock.

“Knows what?”

“Oh, right,” said Piper, with an exaggerated wink.

“No comment.”

“Right, well,” said Hancock, “either way, you get him to the Memory Den, maybe he’ll agree to a round in one of Irma’s chairs. We’ll get those ladies to do their thing and see if he is who he says he is.”

Piper narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about it, sister. Ain’t gonna force him to do nothin’ he doesn’t wanna do.”

“Right, right. Just try not to do anything vile. Wouldn’t wanna see Goodneighbor get a _bad reputation_ or anything.”

Hancock cackled, and Deacon smirked.

“What do we do about the others?” Deacon “asked.”

“Cait’s a great fighter,” said Hancock. “MacCready’s got a good eye.”

“Right, about that…” He wasn’t part of Deacon’s plan.

“Look, I know you can’t stand him, for whatever reason—”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Oh yeah,” said Piper.

Deacon was getting rusty. “Guess I need to do a tune-up.”

“Right, because you’re a synth.”

“You never know, Piper.”

“Whatever.” She cut her smoke short and left the other half in the ashtray. Hancock swiped it. “I’ll keep my boys in line. Just do what you can to get Blue back.”

“That almost sounded like a threat.”

Hancock smirked, and leaned back to enjoy the show.

“If you can’t figure out a way to stomach MacCready, then, uh, yeah, I guess maybe it could be.” She let out a grunting laugh, and Deacon joined her.

“Believe me, I’ll flog myself if she’s stuck there.”

Hancock snorted. “Believe him!”

Piper cackled.

So did Deacon.

But he wasn’t lying that time.


	6. .last star i see tonight. | .sam.

.last star i see tonight.

.sam.

* * *

Sam hadn’t realized just how close Sanctuary Hills stood to the ruins of Concord. He wondered why no one occupied the boarded up buildings, which looked pretty good, for ruins. Peeling paint and a few misplaced bricks? The cars could be dealt with, either moved or scrapped, though Sam wondered if that Sturges guy had the ability to repair any of them. The smell here was…well, the same burnt smell that he hadn’t quite gotten used to yet, though Dean claimed he had. It lacked the scent of people that any sort of community typically generated, but made up for it in the sickly sweet smell of death.

When the two currently unified groups turned the next corner, Sam immediately knew why. There _had_ been people here. All were dead. Black birds picked the corpses clean.

“Rad crows?” Dean joked. Sam shook his head.

Bodies the “rad crows” hadn’t dined upon yet melted in their torn up, bullet-riddle clothing. The carcass of something huge, something scaly, it seemed, sat amongst them.

“These are somewhat fresh.” Preston examined the scene. “Raiders. Looks like they were trying to move back in here after we drove ’em away, and they got nailed by that deathclaw.”

Dean nodded at the large corpse. “That what this was?”

“Yep. Nasty creatures.”

“So what took it out?” Sam asked.

“I got bite marks,” said MacCready. He was an interesting guy, young, narrow faced, equipped like a freelance sniper. He kept his pale peach face protected from the sun with a hat, though it didn’t have a very wide brim. Thankfully, Preston had given Sam and Dean their own hats, militia style, apparently, and Sam was thankful he wouldn’t get to find out what happened to the ozone in this world the hard way. Preston also helped them find clothing that mostly fit, their standard flannels, jeans, boots, and useful coats. But Dean had been most excited about the hat.

MacCready peered ahead and tiptoed around a body. “And…yep, got a hound corpse over there.”

“Think this was the super mutants we tussled with a few days ago?” asked Sam, scanning the devastation.

“Maybe,” said Preston. He gave the corpse a good, grudging sniff, then coughed. “Yep, too ripe to scavenge.”

Dean made a face at Sam, who just shook his head and continued to follow the party.

Concord was smaller than Sam expected, and the group made it through without incident, unless you counted Dean tripping on a rock and having Danse catch him with his overly armored hand. Yeah, that was pretty weird, having a guy in almost a full suit of mechanized armor (powered by a tiny, but no less frightening, nuclear reactor) just clinking and clanking around. Danse didn’t seem to care about the noise as much as the others did, Sam and his brother included.

The other thing about Danse was his obvious distrust of Hancock and Deacon. From what Sam could gather during his very brief moment with Piper’s back issues, along with some of the chatter around town, the Brotherhood of Steel was a military organization with a similar goal to the Minutemen, only they figured not everyone counted as a citizen, and they didn’t ask to be included in people’s lives. They weren’t the only military group. Myra had told Sam about the Gunners, mercenaries who ran and equipped themselves like a military. At least the Brotherhood appeared to have some ideals beyond money—no, _caps_. Their technological strength, along with their size, made them the most formidable group on paper, but as far as Sam was concerned, he would take the Minutemen over the Brotherhood any day.

After being here for over a week, eating the strange foods, using odd medications, and not having a normal computer of any kind, Sam had started to think long and hard about where his allegiances lay. Getting stuck in other worlds hadn’t felt as permanent as this situation did. He and Dean had tried spells and sigils, planning to have one of them (Dean called shotgun on that) stay behind and get Castiel, while Sam (again, Dean made that decision) worked on a solution from the safety of home. Nothing had worked. There was lore to back up the existence of those other worlds, and maybe those sigils were more specific than originally thought. Here, they had nothing to go on, aside from the basic facts the Minutemen had provided for them. This was an alternate timeline, sure, and they’d been down that road before too, but nothing about this timeline was familiar, except for its shared history. This was a world, Sam suspected, without angels and demons and otherworldly folk.

But it was not without its monsters.

They arrived at Starlight, a walled settlement that once served as a drive-in theater. Here, the concrete walls stood several stories high, and seated more turrets and spotlights than Sam recalled in Sanctuary. That, or they had the same amount, but less space remained between them, making them more menacing. He worried it was the kind of place that needed such defenses, and wondered what kind of terrors attacked these ramparts.

Inside felt just as oppressive. Preston didn’t take them to the main entrance, but instead signaled someone atop the wall, and brought the group in through a powered door not unlike those in Sanctuary. The ramparts here were narrower, but had more rooms along the inside of the walls.

They shuffled into a vaguely familiar conference room.

Preston encouraged everyone to sit down. “Okay everyone. Hang tight. Sam, I could use your help bringing everyone something to eat. The rest of you, I know word travels fast here, so I’d like to keep civilian knowledge of our mission to a minimum.”

“No leisure time, huh boss?” said Hancock.

“Nope, sorry. You’ll have to wait on that. Anyway, we’ll be back soon. Need to check the status of our routes.” He nodded to Sam.

Sam didn’t mind being volunteered for the task. He stood from the fleeting comfort of his seat.

Dean grabbed his arm. “Hey, grab some pie if there is any?”

Sam sighed. “Fine.” He followed Preston into the narrow hallway.

Once they exited the ramparts into the tightly knit town, Preston asked, “Are you okay leaving your brother for a while?”

“We do this all the time.”

“Well, as long as you’ve got a backup plan if things go sideways.”

“We always have a things-went-sideways plan.”

“Good to know.” Preston waved and tipped his hat to passersby. “Have either of you thought about what you’ll do if we can’t get you back home?”

Sam shrugged his brows. “I have, but Dean’s pretending he hasn’t.”

“Ah. Is that typical for you two?”

“Mostly.”

“Huh. Can’t say I don’t understand him. It’s tough to try and keep it together just to make sure everyone else stays safe.”

Sam nodded. “You have family?”

“I’ve got the Minutemen. Sometimes it feels the same.”

They turned onto a bright, busy walkway, full with people, merchants, and a couple of dogs.

“ ‘Family don’t end in blood.’ ”

“Quoting someone?” asked Preston.

“How’d you know?”

“The way you said it, I guess. Like it was a memory of someone you respect.”

Sam smiled as he ducked under a string of lights. “His name was Bobby. Think he raised us more than our dad did.”

“Sounds like he was a good man.”

“One of the best.” Sam dodged an overhanging sign and nearly missed Preston entering a bar.

The bar top and stools were a little more disheveled than the furniture back in Sanctuary, but some of the lights and wall decor had a fresher look to them. It was almost like a proper dive bar, and Sam instantly wished Dean could be here with him, even though they were just ordering a crapton of food for the group.

“Hey, Garvey,” said the bartender.

“Hey. I need a large order: nine dinners and waters.”

“Soups?” she asked.

“Definitely.” He pulled out a handful of caps. “This is for you. Charge the rest to the Minutemen’s account.”

“Got it.” She eyed Sam. “Hey, handsome. You carrying these or am I?”

“I got it,” Sam said.

She nodded and took the order to the kitchen.

Preston sat at the bar. “So, you have places like this where you’re from?”

“Actually?” Sam took the stool beside him. “Yeah. Almost exactly like this.” An opening break shot sounded over the song playing on the low-volume radio. “That’s probably the best sound I’ve heard all week.”

“You have pool?”

“Yeah. It’s kept us fed.”

Preston grimaced at that. “Well, I hope you don’t try and swindle any of us.”

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just that our job doesn’t pay very well. Or at all.”

“Why is that, exactly?” Preston turned on his stool and put his back against the counter. Something sizzled in the kitchen.

“The things we fight aren’t things that are recognized as threats. Most people don’t even think they exist.”

“The opposite happens here. We know so much that some of us take things a little too far.”

“How bad does it get?”

“Pretty bad. Ghouls aren’t allowed in Diamond City. Synths would probably be lynched.”

Synthetic humans. Another thing that was hard to get used to. Apparently the people of the Commonwealth also had a hard time with it, and they’d had a few decades to deal with it.

“We’re still stuck on dividing up people by arbitrary things. Things they can’t control,” Sam said. “We’re coming around, some of us, at least. The people here will too, eventually.”

“I hope so. Even if the Minutemen can’t help every settlement, what the General’s doing is nothing like I anticipated. Us? The Companions? You’ve seen our group, the good we’re doing. The General’s helping the Commonwealth understand that it’s not _what_ we are, but _who_ we are, that matters.”

Sam wished Dean could understand that. He only seemed to make an exception for angels, and just Cas at that. “Paladin Danse doesn’t seem to share that idea.”

“His idea of tolerance will have to work for now. My main hope is to keep him too busy to report back to the Brotherhood. A few of us think he cares more about the General than he lets on, and we’re banking on that. Like it or not, he’s a powerful ally. Keeping him out of the loop invites the Brotherhood in anyway. Show him we trust him? Well, maybe he can help change the Brotherhood’s ideas about synths and ghouls and super mutants.”

“Does he have that much influence?”

“The General seems to think so.”

“She’s playing him?”

“Well…no. Not exactly.” He straightened his back and spun back toward the counter. “Actually…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep or anything.”

“No.” He scratched beneath the brim of his hat. “It’s kind of funny, Sam. You’re probably the only person I could tell this to.”

“I guess if you’re never gonna see me again…” Sam laughed.

Preston chuckled. “That’s what it is, isn’t it. Too bad we’re not having a beer.”

Sam was glad for that. Dean probably would’ve had one. “Maybe after all this.”

“Oh, definitely. We all deserve a beer or two after this.” He tapped the counter in thought. “I’m just a little worried she’s falling for him.”

“Would she abandon the Minutemen?”

“I don’t think so, but there’s more to it than that. Things here are a little tangled. When she’s off solving some problem, I tend to break up more than my fair share of fights between members of the Companions. Usually just heated arguments, but fists have probably been used when I’m not there.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and he exhaled a commiserative sigh. “Do I have to worry about anything in Goodneighbor?”

“Goodneighbor is a rough place. You’ll have more to worry about than jealousy there. Things could get ugly. Hancock wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, but he would severely punish any who tried. That’s why Deacon’s along for the ride. He’s a notorious liar, but because of that, he can cut through the bull and keep everyone on track. Maybe keep any violence from erupting in the first place.”

“Sounds like Dean’s kind of people.”

“Well, maybe it’s for the better that he’s with Piper and Danse.”

_Maybe not._ Dean could get fanatical at times, very set in his ways. Sam had seen Dean take down fanatics, but he’d also seen what happened when Dean met one on the same page as him.

“Maybe.”

The bartender carried out a multi-platform crate of piping hot meals. She held up a finger, then retrieved another crate of water. Sam snatched the water, leaving Preston to the meals. They gave her their thanks and left.

The sun had already set behind Starlight’s tall walls, leaving the town in a mix of deep shadows and gleaming lights. Preston and Sam navigated the labyrinthine roads and ducked beneath string lights on the way back to the ramparts.

“Well, Sam, if you give any more thought to what you might do if you get stuck here, I’d be happy to talk to you more about the Minutemen. Given everything we’ve talked about, and all I’ve seen, I think you’d be a good fit. Plus, we try to keep our soldiers paid when the caps are there. Don’t mistake me. We’re not mercenaries, but we do recognize the work that goes into being a Minuteman, and that soldiers can’t live on duty alone. You wouldn’t need to rely on a pool table here.”

“Thanks. I hope it doesn’t come to that, no offense, but thanks.”

“Understood.”

Preston stopped at an office down the hall from the conference room.

The soldier who attended the office greeted him with a salute. “Lieutenant General Garvey.”

“Do you have the package?”

“Yes sir.” She pulled a folder out of a roughed-up filing cabinet. “Shall I take your crate, sir?”

“No need for formalities right now. Just put it on top of the crate and keep doing what you were doing.”

“Yes sir. Good to see you.”

“Good to see you.”

There were a few protocols Sam had been expecting with a military force that had been missing in some of the procedures he’d witnessed, but he knew he couldn’t expect much in a torn-up world like this. But maybe that’s what made the Minutemen the more attractive choice.

When they arrived, the teams devoured their meals, some with more manners than others (Preston, Danse, and Sam were the most polite, followed by Piper and Deacon). Dean gave Sam a betrayed look when no pie appeared, but Sam had no idea if pie was even a thing in this world. Preston reviewed the contents of the folder while he ate, and interrupted the many ongoing conversations when he was through.

“Piper, Oberland’s last report indicates Beantown is still clear. Your team will split from us at the highway near Corvega and head along the safe zone.”

“Sure thing.” Piper stabbed her weird seafood cake with a fork. She seemed to like it a lot less than Dean liked his.

“The highway to Bunker Hill is still clear. We’ll head that way, but we’re not stopping ‘til we’re over the river.”

“And why not?” asked Cait. “Cricket doesn’t bite. Well, not everyone.”

Preston sighed. “Too many travelers through the Hill. We’ll stay the night on the highway if we’re moving too slow, then cut around near the bank. Either way, I’ll split with you near the Cabot House.”

“Is our team gonna make it to this…” Dean swallowed his food. “Diamond City before night?”

“Probably not, though it might provide better cover.”

“There’s a Brotherhood outpost across the river from brewery,” Danse offered. “It’s secure.”

_Please don’t let him take Dean there,_ Sam thought.

“No. You three need to stop, you make a detour to Oberland or rough it out and stay at Hangman’s.”

“Hangman’s isn’t far from Diamond City,” said Piper, who was sipping soup broth with her spoon. “Might as well take the extra five minutes and head there.”

Danse turned to her. His power armor loomed behind him. “Is that safe?”

“Well, safe enough. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how far their patrol reaches.” She stirred the broth. “I’m also sure they’ll hear you coming from a mile away, so…yeah. Not too worried about that. If anything happens, feel free to let me hide behind one of those ginormous feet.”

“Power armor is an effective method of protecting yourself. You should consider acquiring and maintaining your own personal suit, Piper.”

“Yeah, I could, _or_ I could spend my caps on more _important_ things, you know, like food, water, ear plugs…”

Hancock and Dean snickered, then caught themselves laughing at the same thing and promptly quieted. Hey, if Dean was laughing at Danse, then maybe he wouldn’t warm up to him after all.

Preston checked his pocket watch. “Okay everyone, let’s get back to the mission. I want us back on the road in thirty.”

Sam’s time remaining with Dean dwindled. “Preston,” he said, over the newly erupted conversations, “is there anywhere I could talk to my brother privately before we leave?”

Preston nodded, and stood. Sam nudged Dean, who got the message, and followed him out of the conference room.

 


	7. .brotherhood. | .dean.

.brotherhood.

.dean.

* * *

Dean leaned on the table in the break room. Or the really tiny mess hall. It was one of those things that probably hadn’t been established officially yet. “Sam, I haven’t seen a single guy here aside from the group.”

“So?” Sam said.

“Just saying.”

“Maybe we should talk about something more important, like how you and I are about to split up for at least a week in a place we’ve never even heard of or understand.”

“Oh, I understand it, Sam. Survival of the fittest, kill or be killed. See a monster, shoot a monster.”

“You can’t be serious! Dean, we have no idea what we’re up against. We have no contacts here, no ways of getting information, and no means of traveling quickly. We can’t just hot-wire a car and go.”

“I’m just kidding Sam, lighten up.”

“Are you?” Sam made his classic guilt-trip face. “Are you really just kidding?”

Dean sighed, then shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t kidding, but if he didn’t get this idea through to Sam, then he’d be taking Sam home in a casket made of warped metal and rotten wood. The mere thought made his stomach roil. “Why’d you wanna talk? Couldn’t’ve been to give me an ethics lecture.”

Sam sighed too, then mimicked Dean and leaned against the small, unpolished counter top after nearly smacking his head into a hanging light bulb. “What are we going to do if we can’t get home?”

Dean gave him a noncommittal frown. “I dunno, build a shack and shoot two-headed creatures for the rest of our lives?”

“I’m serious, Dean.”

“I know you are, and I don’t want us thinkin’ like that right now, Sammy. We just need to find Cas and get home.”

“But if we don’t?”

Why was his brother being such a pain right now? Of course Dean had separation anxiety. Sam knew him well enough to know that. Dean didn’t want to talk about it, because going with the flow and dealing with the problems as they came along would keep him from thinking about the “what ifs” of Sam actually dying while they were apart (with no chance of resurrection), and the “holy shit” of never going home again.

Damn, Crowley must be pleased as punch right now.

“Sam, I think our best shot is with people like Danse.”

“Shit,” Sam murmured.

“Look, I know you don’t wanna hear it, but Sam, I talked to Danse while you were gone—”

“Why—?”

“Wait. And I’ve been listening. The Brotherhood of Steel is this world’s Men of Letters.”

“You really think that?”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“How can you not?” Dean paced to the other side of the tiny room. “I mean, look at this place, Sammy. Dirty walls, dirty beds. We’ve stayed in some pretty crappy places before, but even our worst digs weren’t full of giant roaches and blanketed in radiation. Danse says they’ve got scribes and tech, and they fight monsters and keep people safe from big or unseen threats. Does that not sound like the Men of Letters to you?”

Sam’s eyes fell to the floor. “Well, yeah, it does.”

“So?”

“So on the surface, you have a point, but you have no idea what ends the Brotherhood will go to in the name of progress.”

“Could you blame them?” Dean gestured to the entirety of the world. “Have you seen this place?”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

“I’m hearing you.”

“I’m not joining the Brotherhood,” Sam said. “For that matter, neither should you. You really want to take orders from a military that answers to no one?”

“They answer to the cause!”

“What cause, Dean? ‘Saving people, hunting things’? Is that really all it is for you any more?”

Dean clenched his fist. Once again, Sam had been driven by his ideals, instead of reality. “Look, we’re just gonna find Cas and meet back here in a week. Let’s just keep our heads on and try not to die or turn into ghouls by then, okay?”

Sam shook his head. “Whatever, fine.” He stormed out of the room.

That tall little shit. Dean growled and launched himself from the counter before returning to the conference room, where the Companions loaded dirty dishes into a crate, and Sam refused to meet his eyes.

The brothers said little to each other on the short walk to the collapsed highway. A massive factory loomed ahead, one that Preston eyed warily as they prepared to split. Dean caught some movement on the roof, as did MacCready, but nothing else made itself known. Dean thought he heard Hancock mutter something about “raiders,” but no one reached for a weapon.

Dean and Sam exchanged a cursory embrace before parting with their respective groups. Dean gave that half-nod, half-salute to Preston, and even accepted Hancock’s extended, tragically wrinkled hand, and was quickly pulled into one of those bro-hugs, but this one was far from forgiving.

“Pipes better stay in one piece,” Hancock whispered, the smell of smoke clinging to his outlandish coat.

“Ask my brother what I’ve done to save him.” Dean patted Hancock’s back a little too hard. “And don’t you worry about Piper or Danse.”

“Heh, killing Danse might put you in my good graces.”

“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.”

The faux-embrace ended and the two groups finished their brief farewells and headed out into the night.


	8. .beyond death. | .hancock.

.beyond death.

.hancock.

* * *

Hancock tapped the side of the beer bottle before twisting the cap off with the inside of his frock coat. The cap slid into an inner pocket. He’d perfected that move a while ago. He smiled and tasted the brew. The beer was alright, for warm beer found in some absent scavver’s stash. Now if only he could turn up a box of Mentats.

This place was truly a fuckin’ hole-in-the-wall kinda place, not all that surprising once you crossed the river from Bunker Hill. Its jagged partial-roof sometimes protected them from the rain that fell, but thankfully four walls still stood in place (minus one teensy literal hole in the wall), and the wind moved the rain in a favorable direction. This large section of floor stayed relatively dry. The highway might’ve been safer, but hauling ass after smelling rain was a good call; they’d be soaked and chilled to the bone if they had moved any slower.

The absent scavver, probably the body MacCready’d spotted down the road from the building, had built a pretty good firepit on this third-floor shelter. The half-barrel of rusted steel had seen its fair share of fires, and now hosted another. Travis, host of Diamond City Radio, soothed the travel-weary crew from the static-free speaker of a radio. Hancock passed around some beers, figuring he couldn’t let Travis do all the soothing. Preston declined, since he was on first watch, but Sam was a good little guest, and he pulled a similar move to Hancock.

“Nice trick.” Hancock toasted with Sam. “Hope yours tastes better than mine.”

Sam grimaced a little, but swallowed. “I’ve had worse.”

“Same here.”

They drank in relative silence—well, if you didn’t count the low-volume song playing on the radio—until MacCready punctured it with a whisper. “Did you guys see that?”

Sam’s face fell and he searched for the source, as if scouring for an infestation instead of whatever shadow the fire had flung MacCready’s way. Of course, Hancock knew better than to doubt the eyes of MacCready, so maybe Sam was onto something. Sam held out his arm, then sniffed the air.

“You okay over there, Winchester?” said Deacon.

“What did you see?” Sam asked MacCready.

“Not sure, just a shadow of something.”

The wind picked up, giving their fire a momentary strength, then threatening its very existence. The room chilled, and thunder rumbled.

“Never mind,” MacCready said. “It was probably just a trick the lightning did. I must be tired.”

Sam didn’t buy it.

“You okay there, brother?” said Hancock, sharing a look with Deacon.

“Maybe.” Sam searched the absent scavver’s things, hitting up the tall tool chest and a rusty trunk first. The trunk didn’t open.

“Let me have a look at that.” Cait stood and fished through her pockets for a bobby pin, then knelt beside the trunk. “Hand me that screwdriver.”

Sam passed it along, then continued his search elsewhere. “We need something made of pure iron.”

“Here,” said Deacon, standing to lend a hand, “let me just hop over to that massive zeppelin and bring back the Brotherhood of Steel’s iron fist.”

Hancock joined the search. What would it hurt? “I think we could find one on Mayor McDonough, too.”

“Oh right, _two_ iron fists.”

“I’m serious,” said Sam. “Uh, MacCready? You sure it was a shadow?”

MacCready furrowed his brow. “I thought it was a shadow, but now you’re making me think it’s not.”

A flash of lightning, followed by an immediate shake.

“That wasn’t thund—” Hancock paused, listening to the actual thunder, and waved over Preston, who had come in from his watch, sneaking low.

“Deathclaw,” Preston mouthed. Deacon killed the radio, and the group huddled and crouched.

“Got it,” said Cait, lifting the trunk’s lid gently. Sam crept over to sift through the contents, and quietly pulled out two guns, something leather, and a frying pan. He hefted the frying pan in his hands, then waited with the rest of them.

Preston gave Hancock the go-ahead to check the nearby front window, while Preston kept eyes on the stairs. Sometimes, one of those lizards could squeeze their way up some of the Commonwealth’s narrowest staircases, and these stairs were the forgiving sort of residential stairs. Hancock hoped that any ravenous deathclaw would discover the staircase’s newest weak spots, and find itself up the crotch in rotting carpet and wooden splinters.

Pebbles of ceiling debris fell on their heads as the building trembled. This had to be a gargantuan deathclaw, the kind that moved the ground and could roar your ears to Nuka-World. Hancock peered out a window, keeping his gun down, hoping the fire didn’t cast a shadow that the deathclaw would notice, but it wouldn’t do anything now, because the fire had died completely. Saved ’em all some trouble in putting it out, at least.

There. Yeah, it was a deathclaw alright—big, burly, and a wan gray. It lumbered, shambled, really, and looked about the street as though it forgot what kind of neck it had.

Hancock gave the group a signal, and each raised their weapon, though Sam lifted the frying pan instead of the shotgun he’d brought. Being mayor of Goodneighbor, yeah, he’d seen weirder. Hancock steadied his own shotgun, which probably wouldn’t do much from here, but it could scare the deathclaw off. He waited for MacCready to take his place. MacCready steadied the barrel of his rifle, aimed, then gracefully took the shot. Blood gushed from beneath the deathclaw’s left horn. The deathclaw staggered and shook its head, then stood back up. It turned toward MacCready, who was already lining up his next shot, and it roared, sending both MacCready’s and Hancock’s hats backward to Cait.

“Here it comes,” Preston said.

MacCready missed his next shot as the deathclaw galloped toward the entry point. It gave the building a shake with its _thud thud_ of trying to run up the stairs.

“Shit.” Hancock joined Preston and unloaded his shotgun into the squirming, shoulda-been-dead-by-now deathclaw, who roared in pain and in something else aside from anger too. As if it wanted this even less than they did.

In Hancock’s hesitation to contemplate the matter of the deathclaw’s will, Preston let loose a cranked-up shot. The deathclaw’s skin singed and the beast howled, but it continued its suicidal journey up the stairs.

“Fall back!” said Preston.

“I hope you brought some stimpaks,” MacCready said, “Because ‘fall back’ is going to be more like ‘fall outta this window.’ “

“I’m not really up for a defenestration party,” said Deacon, “but I guess I’ll manage.”

The deathclaw rose from its latest stagger and pushed them into their room, its body pressed hard against the skeletal wooden doorframe that splintered and cracked against the force of the creature’s fury.

The radio in the corner turned on with a roar, shocking MacCready, who’d turned his gun on it and nearly shot Sam, the only one of them who seemed to expect that surprise.

Sam readied the frying pan and ran toward the deathclaw, which was happy to invite its next meal into its mouth sooner rather than later. As the _snap_ of the doorframe sounded alongside thunder, Sam walloped the deathclaw with the pan, knocking a ghastly mist from its skin. The deathclaw shuddered into a heap of blood and twitching muscle, and the radio clicked off.

Holy fuckin’ _shit_.

Sam stepped back, then stupidly knelt beside it.

“It’s still breathing,” he said.

“It’s still angry,” Hancock warned.

The deathclaw huffed, sputtering rain out its nostril, and groaned, vibrating the floor. It looked at Sam, then whimpered, which still sounded like a roar, but a pained roar. Sam reached out a hand—

“What’re you doing!?” “Stop!” “Sam, no!” the group sounded.

—And touched the deathclaw’s face.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered. He looked back at the group—why was he turning his eyes away from it?—and asked, “Those stim-pak things? Can they really do what you said they do?”

“Yes,” said Preston.

“We’re _not_ saving that thing,” said Cait.

Hancock kept his eyes on the beast. “It wants to die.”

“But maybe it can live,” said Sam.

“Even so, one stimpak won’t do it.” Hancock sighed, looking at the poor thing. It didn’t need hurtin’. Hell, anything that fed on raiders for breakfast didn’t deserve this. He shrugged and joined Sam. “We can probably spare three.”

“I don’t like this.” Preston kept his sights on the deathclaw. “We should put it out of its misery.”

“Agreed,” said Deacon. “Look, if Mr. Actually Righteous thinks it’s a bad idea, then it’s probably a bad idea. Spare the critter some pain and let’s look at the bright side—deathclaw meat is some pretty hearty stuff.”

“I’m all for hunting,” said MacCready, “but are you really looking into that thing’s eyes and thinking, ‘Ooh, dinner time’?”

“You wanna save it?”

“No, but I don’t always like to eat what looks at me.”

“You’ve had some disappointed lovers then, haven’t ya?” said Cait.

Sam shook his head. He’d clearly had enough of this conversation, and frankly, so had Hancock. _Why can’t his brother be more like this?_ Hancock snatched his bag and tossed Sam two stimpaks. Sam looked at them, befuddled, so he hung onto them and turned his bedside manner back on for the patient. Hancock snatched Preston’s bag, being met only with a stone-faced glare, and freed a third stimpak.

The radio kicked on again.

The deathclaw groaned, as if it knew the same thing that Sam seemed to know. Sam’s ears were as pricked as Dogmeat’s, and he clenched the frying pan once again.

“We need salt,” Sam said.

“Yeah, that’s not as plentiful as you think,” said Deacon.

“Then we need to figure out who possessed this deathclaw and burn their bones.”

Cait cursed beneath her breath and flung a box of salt—a whole fucking box!—at Sam. He caught it with his free hand and tore it open, then left the deathclaw’s side and poured it out on the floor.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?!” Cait gaped at him. “That thing was supposed to last me ‘til next year, and yer just throwing it on the floor? If I’d known you were gonna waste it, I never would’ve given it to ya!”

Sam continued to empty the box while Cait’s face turned beet red. “Get in the circle, and whatever you do, don’t break it, and don’t get out of it.”

Hancock cocked his head at him, but Preston, after a vexed stare, begrudgingly nodded.

“Do what he says,” said Preston. “He’ll explain later.”

“He better,” said Deacon, who seemed the least happy about getting that close with anyone.

The group huddled into the salt circle. Outside of the salt, Sam snatched a lighter and a gas can. He gave the box of salt a shake beside his ear, appeared satisfied with what he heard, then hurried to the deathclaw. “I’m sorry, I’ll be back for you,” he said, and he shot a warning look to the group before hopping over the moaning deathclaw and dashing down the stairs.

Well, Hancock wasn’t gonna let them do anything to it if he could help it.

The radio clicked off, then clicked on. Then off again.

“What the hell is happening?” MacCready backed into Deacon, who mumbled something and grit his teeth.

“Creature swap,” Preston said.

Hancock kept his shotgun true, and raised it. The deathclaw too, had stopped moaning, and the radio went full blast, its sound more demonic and low and unlike any radio station airing in the whole of the Commonwealth.

“Did that arse just ditch us and make a run for it?” asked Cait. She grabbed Hancock’s arm.

“We’re cornered,” said MacCready.

“I have faith in Sam,” said Preston.

“So do I,” said Hancock.

The deathclaw lumbered to life like a feral resurrected by a Glowing One, and charged for the salt, its claws raised, its tail swinging dangerously near the smoldering fire barrel, its footsteps heavy against the floor, the salt bouncing off itself and then—

The deathclaw stopped, roared its cold, stinky breath and saliva in their face, and idled beside the group. The salt was still mostly in place, but if the beast caught on—if it aimed that roar in just the right way, or pounded the floor a little too hard—they’d be toast.

It snapped at them, and missed. The group gave a little shout, even Deacon, and they all raised their weapons, weaving their guns between each others’ heads.

Because they all knew that somehow, even if they spent their ammo and blew out their ears doing it, the deathclaw would not go down, not until Sam did whatever he needed to do with—

The deathclaw roared, stepping backward. Its skin hissed and crackled, set aflame from within. The roars of the beast echoed throughout the streets, and rain sizzled on its burning skin. The beast writhed and shouted until embers rose from its body and disappeared into the ether, then it collapsed again, singed, bloody, and barely alive.

Footsteps pounded wet _thwacks_ against the yonder steps, and when Sam entered the room, he dropped the empty gas can and fled to the ailing deathclaw’s side, picking up the stimpaks on the way.

“We need to help it!” he cried. “Help me use these things!”

Hancock pshawed at the group and dashed to Sam’s side, ripping the stimpaks from his hand and stabbing them into one of the deathclaw’s softer joints. The pain of its burns must’ve overwhelmed the pain of the needle’s prick, and it accepted treatment as Hancock administered it. Only a few seconds ticked between injections. The deathclaw’s tail lifted and slammed against the floor, prompting various exclamations of four-lettered words from the group, but the deathclaw lay there under Sam and Hancock’s care, groaning, whining, as if only an injured dog instead of a massive beast.

“It’s gonna need some water,” said Hancock.

“Right,” said Sam, standing. His rain-slicked hair dripped atop the deathclaw, whose mouth moved and failed to collect the water. “Wait, is this actually a lizard? Like it won’t drink from a dish?”

“Huh?” Hancock pulled a carton of dirty water from his satchel. “What’re you talking about?”

The deathclaw huffed water onto Sam’s feet. “I mean that some lizards don’t recognize water sources the same way we do.”

“Oh, just let it die already,” said Cait.

“The threat’s gone,” said Sam. “You guys can head out and we’ll catch up.”

_Did he really just offer to walk through the city without a bunch of bodyguards?_ Hancock was flattered, really, but was way more impressed with Sam’s strength of character.

“We’ll wait,” said Preston, and he reluctantly handed over a canister of purified water. “Here. Let me know what else you need.”

“You mind telling us what that was all about?” said Cait.

“I’m kind of curious where you got such a big box of salt from,” said MacCready. She _tched_ and rolled her eyes.

“Forget him,” echoed Deacon. “I’d really like to know what kind of hocus-pocus that was.”

Using items from around the room, Sam created a makeshift aqueduct to collect water for the deathclaw. The beast appreciated it. “The body that we saw a little ways away must’ve been the person who lived here. When we came in and started disturbing their house, their ghost possessed the nearest living thing it could to terrorize us into leaving it alone.”

“A ghost?” Cait shook her head in union with Deacon and MacCready. “You’re telling me ghosts can do things like _that_?”

“They’re not always an apparition who walks around whispering names. They can get really dangerous. Even if we’d just left, the ghost could’ve hurt someone else, someone who doesn’t know what I know.”

“The silver bullet, huh.” Hancock nodded at the frying pan. He took the risk and patted the deathclaw. It was kind of cute when it wasn’t trying to kill them. “So iron hurts ’em?”

“And salt drives them away,” added Preston.

Sam nodded to both. “There were a lot of signs of possession, so I figured the best bet was to salt and burn the only body we knew of nearby. Usually that does the trick.” He dusted his hands and squeezed more rain from his hair. “My line of work isn’t exactly…recognized, but in this world, it seems like it’d be more commonplace. You sure you don’t have anything like this here?”

“We’re not,” said Preston. “Most of our threats are more tangible.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, so…maybe more than just people swapped.”

“You think that scavver was from your world?” Hancock gave the deathclaw another pat. It seemed to really like that.

“No, they weren’t wearing anything that made sense for that, no offense. But maybe the rules of the worlds are…colliding, or maybe the veil was pierced too. Either way, we’re really gonna have to find my friend if we want to stop it, otherwise…I’m gonna have teach you all how to hunt.”

Preston clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Well, Sam, the Minutemen could always add more weapons to its repertoire.”

The deathclaw grumbled. Hancock withdrew. “I think it’s time to hit the road.” The Commonwealth didn’t need another danger, and in a world built on a massacre, where nothing but strangers invaded the homes of the dead, Sam’s world could kill theirs. “We need to find that friend of yours before Boston rises from the dead.”

 

 


	9. .and so it goes. | .piper.

.and so it goes.

.piper.

* * *

“That’s the brewery?” Dean checked a thumb to his right. Beantown Brewery loomed beside them, cold as the falling rain.

“Yeah,” said Piper, squeezing rain from her hair. “It’s not functioning anymore, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“No hopes here,” said Dean, scrunching his nose. “I can handle the smell of stale beer better than the next guy, but this just reeks.”

“An old water treatment plant may to be blame for part of it,” said Danse. He’d been doing that a lot, _Steel’splaining_ , as Piper liked to call it. “Across the river. Super mutants turned it into a bucket of filth, and I don’t mean just by being there.”

“Sounds like the kind of place your General might wanna secure,” said Dean.

“Maybe,” said Piper. It wasn’t worth mentioning to Danse that she had personally helped Blue secure the site and return water to Graygarden. Danse hadn’t been around then, and the Brotherhood didn’t need to know that taking charge of the plant would cut off Graygarden’s water. He probably already had a plan in place to hack the robots and take all the food. _Another example of you withholding a good story for the Greater Good, Piper,_ she thought, but that had been a personal favor to Blue.

Laughter sounded over the hill. Dean perked up his head. “What’s that?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Danse cut in. Piper growled beneath her breath. “Oberland Station, under Minutemen control. It has no real advantage other than proximity to the city.”

“That place ain’t as fortified as the others.” Dean tried peering through the trees toward the warm, orange glows of Oberland. “She doesn’t care that much about it?”

Piper shrugged her brows. “Well—”

“Like I said, it has no value.” Danse continued walking. “The ground is full of rocks, and while it sits on a hill, it really only overlooks the water. Enemies have the advantage on land. To build a wall tall enough to fortify against such an attack could potentially disrupt the amount of sunshine the crops receive. It’s only good for an overnight stay.”

Dean kicked a stick. “Are we far from this Diamond City?”

“No,” said Piper. “We keep moving.”

“He has a point,” Danse said, to which Piper grit her teeth. “It’s still raining, and our route is along the riverbed. We should consider Oberland.”

“Afraid that machine of yours will get stuck?”

“Power armor is replaceable,” said Danse. Must be nice to have the means of the Brotherhood. “Lives are not.”

“The route is fine,” said Piper. Staying in Oberland would only delay Blue’s rescue further. “I’ve taken it in worse rain than this, on darker nights than this, without the luxury of a lantern. It’s our best shot of making it by the camps, unless you suggest we take the road overrun by Rust Devils and ferals?”

“Rust Devils will be taking shelter in this storm,” said Danse.

“Oh, great, so the ferals are okay.”

“I would rather they catch scent of us on solid land rather than in thick mud.”

“Got news for you, Danse.” Piper turned and stared both of them down. “Ferals can’t fly, and even if we follow the banks a little farther in, we’ll still be out of harm’s way. _Nothing_ hangs out here. Not even a bloatfly. The worst we’re gonna get is a little mud in our shoes, and last I checked, there’s a spot we can clean them in Diamond City. Called my house. Also, let’s not forget who Preston put in charge here, or does the Brotherhood recommend disobeying the orders of a superior?”

That shut Danse up, and put a little smirk on Dean’s face, but neither said anything, and they trudged toward the muddy banks, which had probably receded only a foot. They’d need to be quick. The water was rushing, so maybe there was a chance for some flash flooding.

“That ridge of boulders,” Piper said. “If we move quietly, we’ll avoid any floodwaters and still keep out of sight of the baddies. Think you can handle that, _Paladin_?”

“Can do, Ms. Wright.”

“Good.”

The rain came down hard, as if summoned by Danse’s earlier protests, and it was all Piper could do to not complain about tasting the mineral-laden mud that splashed in their faces and all over their clothes. Through the wash of pounding rain, faint blips were heard.

Dean, carrier of their lantern, hesitated with each step. His hand hovered between his pistol and maintaining balance in the mud. Danse paid the muck no mind, finding every solid step in the field of slop.

A shout. Piper and her team perked their heads toward it, but nothing could be seen through the white curtains of rain. They knew only of the ridge they traveled, of the rushing, rising river, and the vague shapes of the buildings that stood this side of the river-running road. They exchanged looks, each knowing better than to say anything, though Danse appeared to have that told-ya-so look on his face. Piper sighed and drew her weapon, but nothing showed, and they continued on.

An unidentifiable boom—gunfire? thunder?—pierced the rain. They stilled and listened. Short pulses fired, interrupted by thunder. Nearby, someone battled. Not an uncommon occurrence in the Commonwealth, Piper knew, but little cover existed here aside from the ridge, which meant risking flash flood areas if they wanted to avoid stray bullets or lasers.

“Piper,” warned Danse, tapping her arm, but she shrugged it off and peered into the rain, already aware of what he worried for.

But then the gunfire stopped, meaning someone won.

“Keep moving,” she said, and cautiously, the others obeyed.

A growling shout, coming from a growing shadow in the curtain, cut their senses. Someone…fleeing? The shadow turned, popped a few bullets into their pursuer, then turned back. Whether they turned for the group for help or to use them as a shield to shake their predator, Piper didn’t know, but the shadow heading their way tripped and was swiftly dragged away by their ankle into the foggy rain.

“The light!” Danse patted Dean, who swiftly put out the lantern. He set it down and took out his pistol.

Piper signaled for complete silence. The screams of that figure disregarded the order.

“You couldn’t have predicted that,” said Danse, getting into a battle stance.

“Thanks for the benefit of the doubt,” she replied, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

“Where’s that light coming from?” asked Dean.

“There’s a shack along the riverbed,” said Danse.

“Yes,” said Piper. “Hasn’t been used in a while, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That is what I’m thinking.”

“Shh!”

An agitated gurgle took over the screams of the disappeared figure, and low growls of maddened creatures followed it in a chorus.

“Damn it,” Piper said quietly, “they pulled ferals on us. Get ready.”

The first lumbering shadow appeared, unaware of their presence. Piper raised her pistol, aimed, fired. It shook on impact, but in the keen awareness that ferals still seemed to possess, it charged toward the general source of the shot, until Piper pulled the trigger again.

Four more shadows emerged above the rocks.

Dean downed two without a thought, Danse another with Piper’s assistance, but the fourth drew closer, its sagging features more apparent. It hobbled before it charged at Dean, who unloaded one bullet into its chest before getting tackled and losing his hat. Danse lifted the feral off Dean, and forced his gun into its chest, sending viscera into the rain and onto the two men. Danse chucked the withered corpse aside and lent Dean a hand, but Piper caught the emergence of uncountable shadows, and fired at the one that seemed closest. Ferals in the back tripped over the fallen shadows of others, but recovered quickly and charged, forcing the small squad to break formation.

Piper felled another feral. “Stay close, no one cross lines of fire!”

Danse found himself unable to keep range, or maybe he preferred to take a more hands-on approach with the power of his suit. He pried a feral from his arm and demolished it, turning it into ashes that the storm churned into the mud. Dean shot and elbowed the ferals charging him, blood running over his cheeks. He spotted something in the distance, and made a run for it, just as Piper was about to take a shot. She withheld her fire as he bent over the body of the fallen person from before and lifted a machete, but her target feral was already charging her. Fingers cold, she emptied her clip into it, dropping it only inches from her feet. She shook her head and reloaded, letting Danse take on the close-range feral while she focused on the middle and back ranks. Dean wrote calligraphy with his machete, weaving and waving it in deft strokes that flawlessly beheaded and dismembered ferals.

Piper spotted a stray making its way around the group, heading straight for a seemingly unaware Dean, who’d taken cover behind a tree. She aimed, fired, felled the feral, then toppled backwards as something tugged the hem of her coat.

A raspy voice roared in her ear. She turned, meeting the wild eyes of her enemy. Another feral wrapped its bony fingers around her ankle, and the two worked together on halving her, tugging and pulling, their shriveled hands slipping on her rain-soaked clothes, their lock on her tighter with every re-grip.   She slammed the heel of her gun into the closest’s skull repeatedly. She could lose a foot, but not a head. The feral wouldn’t budge.

“Get…off…me!” Harder and harder she slammed, unable to get a straight-on shot, but now the feral at her foot had crawled up to her knee. Danse called out her name, but sounded overrun himself. She let out a growl, put her pistol to whatever part of the air-gnawing feral she could actually get a shot on, and pulled the trigger. It dropped, covering her hands in its decayed flesh and oozing, radioactive blood. She freed herself from the corpse and kicked at the other feral, shoving it and its rotten breath away, then fired, spattering its insides all over her pants and shoes. She coughed out the stench as she rose, taking another feral down and searching the miasma of guts and foggy rain for any remaining danger.

Dean, as if a trained dancer, lopped the heads off his foes. He soon engaged with the last feral, it seemed, and neither Piper nor Danse took the chance of accidentally shooting Dean, and waited, guns trained, in case Dean failed. He didn’t. The last feral’s head popped off with an artistic, brutal grace that made Piper’s stomach turn. Dean had been trained alright, but he took a sick kind of pleasure in offing ferals, and Danse’s face showed a light smile before he patted Dean on the back.

Piper contained the lump in her throat and nodded at the bodies. “Unless you see anything good, leave it. I’m sick of this rain.” Dean’s story, if told incorrectly, could undo all that Blue had built. No way could Piper let that happen. There had to be another side to the Winchester story, one that wouldn’t inspire people into misguided heroism, where perceived aggressors were not only slaughtered indiscriminately and in great number, but slaughtered for the _fun_ of it.

Her stomach did another flip.

The team continued following the ridge until it met the cleared road, where silhouettes of Minutemen patrols, not feral ghouls, appeared. They neared Hangman’s Alley, and soon, Piper would be home in Diamond City, where she could wash the stink of battle from her hair and clothes, and make note of the horrifying glee the eldest Winchester took in destroying those he saw as monsters.

 


	10. .rogue variable. | .sam.

.rogue variable.

.sam.

* * *

“Almost there.” Deacon stepped over the decayed body without a glance, and opened the door. “In here.”

Sam choked on a cough as he and Deacon entered the torn-up bookstore. Musty wood was probably not the ambience the original owners were going for; this trashed, former haven of bookworms looked like a forgotten heap of wood meant for recycling. It must have been raided long ago too, for it lacked many books. Remnants of spines clasping torn pages sat on few shelves. Sam hoped to find just one to carry him through this final night of waiting. With Preston off to the Castle, and everyone else carrying out their part of the plan in Goodneighbor, he was now alone with Deacon, who was pretty great at stunting the kind of conversations that passed time. He was a lot like Dean in that way. Tomorrow, the two of them would reach this Goodneighbor place, where Hancock was supposedly the mayor. Maybe, finally, they’d find Castiel.

Deacon took the second floor, while Sam the first. After announcing them clear of hostiles, they joined up beside an abandoned, empty cash register.

“How much farther ’til Goodneighbor?” Sam dusted off an overturned shelf. He tested its stability, then sat down, rubbing his knees. He was a physically fit person, but he was not used to this much walking on an uncontrolled diet.

“Maybe two, three minutes.” Deacon overturned another shelf and sat near Sam.   “Hell, we might even be able to break into Goodneighbor if we took a hammer to that wall over there. We’d probably end up in Marowski’s office.” He chuckled and pulled out a cylinder of water for each of them. “Here. Noticed yours was getting low.”

“Thanks.” Sam took the container and opened it. After swallowing, he realized that this was the first time since arriving here that he hadn’t given a second thought to drinking it. The purified water still scared him, because despite all he knew, he still had no idea how to remove radiation from water. This unwary sip came with a settling familiarity, and a growing acceptance of the fact that they would not leave this world. “How long have you been with the Minutemen?”

“Oh, me? A year ago, give or take. Still not official, per se, but only because I’m too much of a happy-go-lucky type to become a police officer.”

Sam laughed. Over the years, he and Dean had developed and evolved their bullshit detectors. Deacon had a rigidity to him despite his overt, carefree nature. Sam had first noticed this when he kept taking bathroom breaks near old trash receptacles and rusted mail bins. An odd rule, but one that Sam had thought odd in its specificity. Yet people did unusual things to maintain their privacy, things that became rules which could never be broken. Sam also noticed Deacon’s rules in the way he moved, cautious, as if not entirely used to operating with a group, but very used to conducting missions alone. Sam had met people like him before. _Maybe he’s ex-Brotherhood, or…_ No. Danse would’ve mentioned that, maybe, or perhaps that was where the unspoken hostility between them came from. _Maybe not._ What was that other group again? _Gunners? An ex-Gunner, maybe?_ Or perhaps he was part of a more elite group within the Minutemen, something not as public as the Companions, and lying about it made it more invisible to the average citizen.

“It’s true,” said Deacon. “Honest.”

Sam’s brows dipped and he smirked. “Sure.” He sipped his water.

“We’ll get you home,” Deacon said, in an entirely different tone of voice. “But if it makes you feel better about this whole thing, you can ask me whatever you want about the Minutemen.”

“Honestly?”

“With that? Yeah.”

Sam believed him. “Okay, I guess I’m curious about how the whole thing works. Are you a collection of city-states? Or I suppose, independent settlements?”

“Sort of. At first, it was about convincing settlements that the Minutemen were back, doing jobs for them to prove we could be there when they needed us. Then slowly, they started to join us. Some even asked us to help secure new spots to settle in.”

“But what does the government look like?”

“Uh, the General pretty much says something is law and it’s law. I mean, she kind of runs it by us before she does, Preston first, usually.”

Sam nodded. “And what did you mean by the Minutemen being ‘back’? Did something bad happen to dissolve them?”

“That’s probably something to ask Preston next time you see him.”

“That bad?”

“More like I don’t actually have the specific details. I just know the Minutemen went away and settlements who needed them didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sam’s stomach rumbled. Usually, this was the sort of thing to apologize for, make an immediate excuse for, as it fell somewhere beneath sneezing on the scale of “important natural human noises considered embarrassing enough to acknowledge.” In this world, a rumbling stomach was too common for something like that. Deacon didn’t mention it. “Are you hungry?” was a question so obvious it would be insulting, because the answer was likely, “Of course I’m hungry.”

Sam rubbed his stomach. “What kind of jobs does the average Minuteman do?”

“Stuff like this, you know, finding missing people and getting them home safely. Kidnappings are pretty frequent here, especially in places with _lots_ , and I mean _lots_ of mutfruit.”

“Has anyone ever thought of offering these people a place in their settlements?”

Deacon chuckled. “With that kind of idealism, you’d be a perfect fit for the Minutemen.”

Sam took one last sip of his water before setting it aside for later. “Just trying to have a back-up plan to the back-up plan, you know?”

“Oh, I get it. Not that I’ve ever fallen into another world and been forced to swallow a reality almost entirely different from the one I spent my whole life in, but I get the need to plan while everyone else tells you to ‘go with the flow.’ ”

“Were you listening to my brother and I back at Starlight?”

“No, surprisingly,” Deacon smirked, “but if he said that, it can’t be that great a feeling for you. Me? I like a mix of both. The plan has to account for, uh, _rogue variables_ , but not so much that it leaves you stagnant.”

Sam shrugged his brows at that sentiment. That’s what the problem was: with no information, he felt stagnant. He was banking on finding Cas, and if he didn’t, then the back-up was to stay. But how could he account for these “rogue variables”? He barely knew anything about this world, or if Cas’ powers were still limited here, or even worse, non-existent. Could Cas even survive on his own here? What would radiation poisoning do to an angel, given his ability to heal quickly? That’s how mutations formed, Sam knew that much, damaging the cells, forcing the DNA to repair something more often resulting in an increased chance of a mis-copy, a mutation. That’s how it worked, right? That’s how things like cancer developed, wasn’t it? Would it affect Cas’ vessel, or his spirit? Wasn’t his vessel dead now, and wasn’t Cas’ body a gift, an anomaly in the spirit-vessel rulebook?

“You okay there, Winchester?”

“Yeah, um, just hoping my friend was as fortunate as Dean and I were when we got here.”

“Worried he’s gonna turn into a ghoul?”

_Would Dean hate him?_ “I’m not sure that’d happen to him.”

“Why, is he some kind of ghost?” Deacon joked. Only Sam didn’t laugh. “Wait, is he really a ghost? Because he’s gonna be a little harder to find if—”

“He’s an angel. That’s why he has powers to get us home.”

“…I have no witty response to that.”

_Shit_ , Sam thought. Deacon was all for killing that deathclaw, but he also seemed against the senseless murder and ostracizing of ghoul citizens. Maybe Sam had made a mistake, but it was too late to recover from. “I don’t know what mythology you guys have here, but Castiel _is_ an angel, like one of God’s actual angels. Sibling of Archangels and the whole thing.”

“Oh, we have that, only it’s not true here,” said Deacon. He stood, and Sam wondered if maybe he had broken him. “What kind of abilities does this friend of yours have?”

“Here? I’m not sure. If he’s lost his powers here, we’re screwed. Dean and I tried to get some sigils we know to work, you know, to get home, but Cas has a library of information in him that doesn’t always come out until we need it. He just doesn’t think some of it’s important to mention. So maybe he has another sigil that would work here, or maybe his angelic battery has enough juice to make the sigils we know work.”

“Sigils?”

“Symbols.”

“I know that, but you’re telling me you have magical sigils that you just write down somewhere and poof, you’ve cast a spell, and now you’re on your way home?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me you haven’t left any trace of these here.”

_Which organization is he so afraid of?_ “No. We couldn’t risk anyone else accidentally activating them or repeating them.”

“Good.” Deacon held his chin in thought. “If that deathclaw was possessed, then maybe your friend’s still got the goods.” He reached for his water. “Is this guy as, shall we say, _unrelenting_ as your brother on certain things?”

Watching Deacon drink reminded Sam of his thirst. His stomach rumbled again as he reached for his water. He wanted to save it for tonight, but if things got really bad, they could break the plan and hit Goodneighbor earlier than intended. “He used to be, but he’s a lot more understanding now.” Sam took a sip. “Wait, how do you know that about Dean?” Sam set his water down—whoa, no way, his hunger had apparently turned into dizziness. He took another long drink. “Were you…were you listening to…”

The water tumbled from his hand as a hazy Deacon leaned over to catch him.

“Sorry,” Deacon muttered as Sam closed his eyes.

 


	11. .first light. | .dean.

.first light.

.dean.

* * *

“The original names just keep coming, don’t they,” said Dean as they passed one of Diamond City’s guards, who was dressed to the nines in umpire’s gear.

“Any name isn’t all that original when you think about it,” said Piper, giving the cold shoulder to a curious guard, who actually waited his turn to talk to her. “Who were _you_ named after?”

Dean grunted and refrained from explaining that the honor of bearing his grandmother’s name was different from a point-and-name. “I think he wants to talk to us.”

“They always want to talk to me,” she said. “Or anyone passing by.” She peered into the guard’s mask. “Ah, hey there, Ollie, come to comment on my guest’s power armor, or remind me that the mayor has another ‘I’m not a synth’ speech scheduled for tonight?”

“Uh, the power armor, Piper.” Ollie looked Danse up and down. “They’re noisy pieces, and this one’s got the Brotherhood stamp on it.”

Piper looked to the sky and sighed with a growl. “Come _on_ , Ollie. You’ve met Danse before, and we _have_ a power armor station in the market!”

“Look.” Ollie leaned in, away from the prying eyes of a security guard who lacked the privacy of a helmet. Dean figured he was some kind of leader. “Danny’s been on edge about the Brotherhood lately.”

Piper put a hand on her hip. “He’s come in with Blue before.”

“The Vault Dweller recently made it on the Mayor’s ‘Okay to Roam’ list.”

Piper’s brows softened. “Really? She wasn’t on it before?”

“I don’t know what goes on there, okay? I just get my orders and I keep my head down and do my job. Guy’s gotta eat, Piper.” He turned toward Danse. “You’re gonna need to step out of your armor before you head in, Paladin. We’ll keep it safe out here. Follow me to storage.”

Danse nodded. Piper seemed surprised at that, but Dean figured Danse was the honorable sort. Dean, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t’ve relinquished all that protection, considering this place was a huge unknown, but knowing Danse had enough trust in them to step out of his armor eased Dean’s doubts.

“Storage? That new?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know,” said Ollie.

Piper grumbled. “Whatever. This guy’s clear to come in?”

“One second,” said Ollie. He motioned to a fenced off area and ushered Danse inside. After a few hydraulic sounds, Ollie stepped out with a de-suited Danse and sealed the room. “You’re clear to enter with your guests, Piper.”

She shrugged her brows. “Thanks.”

The fence gate guarding the city welcomed them with a squeak, and they ascended the entrance to the stadium, only to descend into an impressive shack city that didn’t appear to sleep, despite the rain. Late night walkers rushed between roofs, holding the brims of their hats or making hats out of scrap metal.

This place, _this place_ , now _this_ was a _cool_ place. Sanctuary Hills was neat, organized, well-protected and well-maintained, but this place had charm, and not just because it was protected by a gigantic baseball stadium. Aside from the pre-war shape of the stands, it lacked symmetry, and nothing matched. It was like a dive bar had blossomed into a settlement. It had a real blue-collar feel, and damn, unless Danse made a real good case at this point, yeah, Dean and Sammy could settle _here_ if they had to.

“It’ll look better in the morning,” said Piper, pushing him away from his perch. “In here.” She took them into the first major structure at the bottom of the steps, where a charming sign reading “Publick Occurrences” hung proudly. She shushed them as she unlocked the door. Inside, she nodded to the sofa, and stepped into the back of the building, where she spoke in a hushed whisper to someone with a young voice. Dean figured he owed Piper an apology for anything stupid he might’ve said or done during the trip, because he knew that tone of voice, for he had often used it himself with Sam.

She came out of the makeshift room, and gestured for them to stay while she went up the wooden steps. A dresser drawer opened and shut, and she returned to them in different, drier attire, holding her coat and hat, which she hung on one of two nails sticking out from a wooden buttress.

“Sorry about the accommodations,” she whispered. “If you can manage, you can share the bed upstairs. Just don’t get all that feral goop on it, and _don’t go through my files_.”

Dean took off his coat and hung it beside hers. “What about that detective?”

“Well, I’m sure he’s up, but I’m exhausted and cold. We can sleep for a few hours. I’ll set an alarm so we don’t waste time.” She hid a yawn behind her palm, then nodded at the kid’s room. “I’ll be here. Try not to make a lot of noise?” She aimed the question at Danse.

“No problem,” said Dean. Danse nodded, and allowed Dean up the stairs first. They set down their things, each rifling for something a little cleaner and drier. The bag Dean had gotten in Sanctuary had a faulty zipper, unbeknownst to him, and it had let in enough rain to soak his extra t-shirt. He unfolded it with a _whoosh_ and hung it from a door handle to dry. _At least the pants are fine_ , he thought, thinking it rude to sleep in boxers when sharing a mattress with a stranger. There were a few damp spots by the ankles, but those would dry quickly. Danse made a similar appraisal of his own clothing, but at least his fit. Dean’d had to settle for a pair of jeans one size too big, because nothing else had been available at the time, though the one lady—what was her name? Anne Something?—had told him she could have a good pair his way if he could wait another day.

“I’ll take the wall,” Dean said, sitting on the bed. A shiver ran down his back. Could he sleep without a shirt? There were no blankets here, and he expected blankets in a city, even a city like this, because Sanctuary had blankets and it seemed like this place wasn’t that worse off than them.

“Here, Dean.” Danse handed him a rolled up blanket. He’d dressed in another uniform, this one a little lighter and lacking a cap. Probably to be prepared, Dean figured, because that’s what he and Sam sometimes did too.

“Thanks, man.” Dean unfurled the blanket, definitely a military issue, and not unlike something you’d find in a sporting goods store. It would do. “Next beer’s on me.”

“It might be a while until I’m off-post,” Danse said, sitting on the edge of the large, naked mattress. “But the sentiment is understood. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

The two men settled into their respective halves of the bed, and Dean’s next memory arrived at dawn. A light—not quite dim, not quite bright, but brushed in that early-morning gray-blue—poked through a hole in the wall he faced, and the air had that fresh-dew smell to it. He wasn’t even sure if dew were a thing here, because he’d never really paid attention, but he knew it was morning in its earliest form. He shifted onto his back, listening for any sign of disruption in Danse’s sleeping. His eyes adjusted, and he caught Danse in the corner of his eye. Danse was wide awake, on his back, his hands folded melancholy in his lap.

“Did I keep you up?” Dean asked quietly, aware that Piper and whoever she shared a room with were not buzzing downstairs.

“It’s nothing,” said Danse. “I haven’t slept well in a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Headaches, vivid and…strange dreams. Nothing can be done for it, so I cherish the short naps and continue to keep my body on a soldier’s schedule.”

“Nothing? Not even sleeping pills?” Dean scrunched his face. “Wait, do you guys have sleeping pills here?”

“I’ve tried herbal supplements, but so far, nothing works. It is alright. Continue to sleep. I might find my next nap soon.”

Dean nodded and wiggled his back into his spot. He yearned for the comfort of the Impala after sleeping on this thing. Damn it, he couldn’t even think about Baby. Someone had probably stolen it by now.

He reached up to massage a knot from his neck. _Maybe Danse can’t sleep because this place is littered with shitty mattresses._ Perhaps the Brotherhood wasn’t the place to head to, if this was an ongoing problem. Sanctuary’s mattresses had a little more comfort to them. _Blankets and pillows too._

Something tugged on a memory. “A few years ago, Sam was getting these wicked headaches.”

Danse turned on his side. “Does he still get them?”

“No, not those.”

“What did he do for them?”

“Well, turns out there was something else inside of him. He’d get these flashes of people, other people, and knew what was going to happen to them. We ran into a couple of other kids his age who had the same problem. They’d all been…infected, I guess, by this yellow-eyed demon.”

“This problem began long before our worlds collided, Dean. I doubt it is the work of a demon. Longfellow’s team established the portal had closed.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that. What I meant was that for a long time, it seemed like it fell outside of the realm of what we knew, of general health stuff, you know, like drinking water or sleeping in the right bed…” Shit. He hoped Piper hadn’t heard that. “And other things we knew, the supernatural things. Once we found the cause, we had to keep Sammy—Sam—away from it. It ended up giving him these abilities, and it was like this drug. He thought he needed it to do good in this—er, _our_ —world.”

“I refrain from chems,” said Danse. “Have never seen the appeal. However, one of our scribes, one in my team, she worked with me to track my diet. We found no correlation.”

“I dunno, I’m just saying it might be where you least expect it. Maybe that armor isn’t so good for your body, or the battery or whatever it is. Just don’t give up hope. Don’t say nothing can be done, because something can _always_ be done, believe me.”

“Sounds like you’d do whatever it takes to protect your brother.”

“You have no idea.” Dean sighed through his nose. The light through that little hole grew brighter. “You’ll find a way.”

“I feel like all options have been exhausted.”

“Have you tried…uh, you know…” Dean curled his hand and made a pumping gesture, then realized Danse probably couldn’t see it clearly in this light.

“I know…?”

“Taking care of business?”

“What business?”

“Your business? Getting a little satisfaction?”

“I believe in respecting the ranks of the Brotherhood.”

“Okay, so you can’t be with someone there, but you know, take a little shore leave, maybe? We can hit the bar here in town, I know there’s _got_ to be a bar in a place like this, and if not, then you’ve gotta, you know, _release those endorphins_.”

“This has been recommended to me, but I find myself without privacy on these missions.”

“Well there you go.” Dean gave him a congratulatory pat. “See, the answer could be where you don’t think. Trust me, we’ll hit the town after seeing this detective, and I’ll be your wingman.”

“My…wingman?”

“Yeah, your wingman. I’ve got a knack for this kinda thing.” He flopped toward Danse. “Wait, this world has condoms, right? That’s essential.”

“We have protection.”

“Not expired, pre-nuke ones, right?”

“No. These can be assembled on the spot by specific or modified robots.”

“No need for an assembly line?” That meant they were expensive. “They cost much?”

“You’ll have to talk to the doctors.”

“ _You’ll_ have to talk to the doctors,” Dean reminded him. He patted Danse’s arm again. “Try to rest up. We’re gonna have one helluva night.”

“What about your friend?”

“A bar’s the best place to start. Not to sound pathetic or anything, but he knows that Sam and I’d probably show up there eventually, and the guy can put away drinks like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Good, as long as we can pair this…unusual method of healing with recon, I’ll be acting within my duties.”

“There you go, positive attitude! I like it. Alright man, I’m gonna try and catch some more Zs before we start the next part of this mission. Good night slash morning.”

“Sleep well.”

Dean turned over, closed his eyes, but sleep never came. He felt _rude_ , a feeling he rarely felt, about sleeping while a dude as cool as Danse was struggling to sleep. It could’ve been that tucked away question, the “what if we get stuck here?” that Sam had been hoping Dean would compromise on.

He turned back to Danse. “Does the Brotherhood have any places like this?”

“No,” said Danse. “Not in the Commonwealth.”

“Why’s that?”

Danse paused. “What I can tell you is that we do not invade. We’ve asked leaders of settlements to make agreements with us, mainly to become a source of important supplies such as food and water, and we have been rejected.”

“Is that why you keep the General around?”

“I keep her around because she’s an incredible soldier, and I am following orders. As for the Brotherhood’s intentions, I do not know. It would be prudent of them to consider her power as General of the Minutemen and her sway over these settlements, however, I doubt she would relinquish that control.”

“So what do you all do to have fun around here?”

“Some of the soldiers enjoy massacring feral ghouls and other abominations, though I believe this is to gain the favor of Elder Maxson.”

Dean figured he could ask who that was later. “So no one just likes to sit, have a beer, eat a burger, maybe watch a game?”

“A game of chess?”

Dean chuckled, then covered his mouth. This shack had a way of carrying sound. “Dude, chess? I mean like baseball. Some of the field here has to be used for that still, right? This place is _iconic_ where I’m from. Ain’t a soul in America that doesn’t know the Red Sox.”

“Do you mean sport? Soldiers have push-up competitions, or wrestle. Sometimes they watch wild dogs attack each other.”

“Dog fighting? That’s fucked up, man.”

“I don’t condone it, I am merely answering your question.”

“So that’s it around here?”

“If it’s billiards or other sports you want, you’d have to sneak into raider territory,” said Danse, “which is both suicidal and dishonorable.”

Dean propped himself on his elbow. “What kind of things are we talking about?”

“Robot racing rather close to the Prydwen,” Danse said.

“That’s not so bad.”

“Even if you don’t account for the raiders who control the track, the use of such technology for entertainment stands on a line, as far as the Brotherhood is concerned.”

“Okay, but is that really the worst? ’Cause dog fighting and killing for the fun of it seems pretty bad to me.”

“The soldiers consider the latter extermination.”

“Right, but even I know that the things that make the job fun should still probably stick with the job.”

“I don’t disagree with you. Soldiers like that often don’t move up in rank. Their bloodlust could become a liability in the future.”

“Smart.”

“I agree.” It looked like Danse offered an awkward smile, but it was hard to tell, even in the fading darkness. “The only other major sport I know of in the Commonwealth is the fighting ring in the Combat Zone. Knight Nora shut that mostly down, but there have been rumors it started up again.”

“What did they do, fight to the death?”

“It wasn’t exactly frowned upon.” Danse paused. “Cait was a fighter there.”

“Hang on a second, Cait was a raider?” _Sam is with her_ , Dean thought. _Woulda been nice to know that before we left Sanctuary._

“A slave to raiders. Knight Nora took over her contract and promptly released her from bondage.”

“Jeez.”

“Indeed.”

Dean scratched his neck. The light outside had become a tad brighter, taking on a yellow hue. “So what about consultants? You guys work with them ever?”

“Are you considering working for the Brotherhood of Steel?”

“Just trying to weigh our options, just in case, ya know?”

“Understood. Just know that the Brotherhood is not an employer. We are a commitment, though I suppose a case could be made to Elder Maxson, given your skills.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Sam and I, we kind of do this stuff back home, the things you’ve talked about. Not the dog fighting or whatever, but the research, the fighting monsters, figuring out what we can use to best solve a case. But we don’t go in with squads. It’s just us hitting the pavement and getting the job done to make people’s lives better.”

“Do you work alone, or as part of an organization?”

“It’s a little of both. We were raised as hunters, but then we found out our grandfather was part of the Men of Letters. So now we operate mostly out of this bunker instead of libraries and motel rooms. Don’t get me wrong, we still need to tear ass across the country to solve cases, but now we’ve got a base. Anything important we find out on the road we bring back. We didn’t always have that before.” Well, when Bobby was alive, but that was another story, preferably shared over a few beers. “Baby’s trunk was getting a little full for a while there.”

“Baby’s trunk?”

“My, uh, _our_ car. We’ve kinda lived in it since we were kids.”

“A mobile base of operations.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“It does sound like you have a familiarity with the kinds of things the Brotherhood does,” Danse said. He rubbed his head. “If you need to make a decision, I will be happy to support you. Just let me know.”

“Thanks, Danse.”

“You’re welcome.” He peered at the small hole in the wall. “It looks like you have approximately one hour left to rest. You should take it.”

“Only if you try to sleep too.”

Danse cracked a smile. “Alright, I’ll try.” He settled into the bed. “Good night, slash morning, Dean.”

“Night-morning, Danse.”

 


	12. .passing the torch. | .piper.

.passing the torch.

.piper.

* * *

 

Piper took the freshly washed shirt from Dean and hung it beside her own drying laundry. “That the last of it?” she asked Dean and Danse, who were coming to their feet after having knelt over washboards in soapy buckets all morning. Piper dried her hands on her pants and picked up two of the four laundry buckets they’d used in their operation, each with their own varying degrees of feral blood, dirt, and residual soap bubbles. Piper hated cleaning up after a nasty fight, because the clothes had to be washed separately from anything else, and had to go through a “de-gunking” before getting a proper washing. Sometimes, she wondered if she could slip the Bobrovs a few caps to access their washers. “We just need to dump these out back, and we’re set.”

Danse lifted the other two buckets before Dean could get to them. Piper led them outside and around the back of her home, then had the dirtiest buckets dumped first, which she rinsed out with the water from the cleanest buckets. Leaving those to dry, she waved her guests over to towel off their hands and arms, then put a few caps into Nat’s hands before taking the men through the market to Nick’s office.

“Nick’s probably the best in his field,” she said, passing Moe Cronin’s store and rounding the corner onto Nick’s street. The Valentine’s Detective Agency sign glowed in the morning shadows. “Don’t leave anything out, seriously. You might think a detail is silly, but you’d be surprised what leads he can snatch from those things.”

“Were we in any other situation, I’d caution against such an action,” Danse said to Dean.

“Right, because he’s a synth or a ‘spy’ or whatever. I’m sure he’s _never_ heard that before.”

“Piper, if I’m not mistaken, I’m sure it was your reckless speculation that caused Diamond City to be wary of any who might be a synth, resulting in the death of a man.”

Piper swallowed. “I had a duty to talk about the boogeyman, Danse. It’s not up to me to teach people how to manage their emotions.”

“I agree. I merely think it is unwise to let speculation run wild. I have never seen Nick in action on the field, but I hope it at least knows well enough to not let speculation overcome rational thinking, or in its case, rational processes.”

“ _He_ , Danse. Nick is a he, whether you like it or not. He doesn’t respond to ‘it,’ so try to cut it out before we get there.” She stopped before the door. “You know, it can get a bit cramped in here. I’m thinking you should wait out here. Yeah, let’s do that.”

Danse took the order. “Yes, Piper.”

She gave the door a knock before opening it. Inside, Ellie stood beside the corner desk, nursing a steaming mug of coffee and a thick, open file.

“Ms. Wright, please, come in!”

“Hey Ellie,” she said. She motioned to Dean. “This is Dean Winchester. He’s looking for a missing person, and uh, actually I’m looking for a missing person too.”

“Two separate—”

“Ellie?” Nick’s voice, upstairs, coming from the bed he didn’t sleep in. “Is that Piper?”

“It’s me,” Piper shouted over the sounds of his feet hitting the stairs. The group collectively waited for Nick to arrive. Once he did, he nodded at the chair opposite the one he took. Ellie leaned on the desk. Piper shrugged her brows at Dean to take the chair. She leaned on the wall behind him, more to guard the door than to take comfort. Once everyone was settled, she answered Ellie’s question. “It’s two separate people, Ellie. One is Dean’s…uh, Nick Valentine, Dean Winchester, Dean, Nick.”

Nick offered his skeletal hand, and Dean shook it after eying it warily.

“Sorry, Nick. Don’t take offense.” Piper didn’t really want to defend Dean, but she figured his hesitation had less to do with Nick being a synth and more to do with having never shaken a robotic hand before. “He’s not from around here. Like _really_ not from around here.”

“None taken,” said Nick.

Coffee appeared in Dean’s hand, then Piper’s. She took a calming whiff of the coffee as its heat soothed her water-wrinkled fingers.

“Anyway,” Piper said after a sip. “His case is related to mine, because…uh….” Her throat tightened. She tried to swallow the lump it formed with a gulp of coffee, but only ended up scorching her throat. “Er, Blue is missing.”

Nick’s brows arched in horror. “What?!”

_How can Danse think Nick’s not human?_ “She’s gone, Nick. We think she’s been zapped into Dean’s world through some kind of interdimensional portal.”

Silence. Ellie gaped at Piper, and Nick’s eyes flitted between Piper and Dean.

“I can understand why you wouldn’t risk putting that into a message. You’re gonna have to start at the _very_ beginning, Piper. Dean, I’ll let you know when you can fill in the details of your story.”

Piper took a deep breath and explained all she knew to Nick. He nodded, recording the information in his head while Ellie took notes at a hand-cramping speed. Piper paused mid-sentence during one key part, realizing she had forgotten her notebook and pen at home in her exhausted attempt to get Nat caught up, everyone fed, and the laundry started. She’d have to log Dean’s story in her head too, maybe double-check some of her mental notes against Nick’s and Ellie’s. When she realized she had paused for what felt like an eon too long (but she could tell felt like nothing to her audience), she banged the door with her elbow, just to dissuade any Brotherhood ear that might be leaning against it, and continued.

“Well, considering the things we’ve learned just by living here in the Commonwealth, not to mention all we’ve seen since meeting Nora, some of this seems easier to believe than I initially thought.” Nick turned his sights on Dean. “Alright, Mr. Winchester. What were you doing before you and your brother were teleported to our world?”

Dean told him the same story he’d given the Companions the first time, and when Nick pressed him for more, the “we’ve world-hopped before” detail revealed at Sanctuary came out.

“Is it possible that Castiel somehow created this problem, given his abilities?” Nick asked.

After a beat, Dean shook his head. “No. I called Cas and it happened right after. Cas has no reason to just put Sam and I in a new world without warning. Even when he’s ported us before—”

“To another world?”

“Just around our own world. He’d show up, grab us, and then do what he had to do. I never even saw him arrive this time.”

“How would you describe your friendship with him?”

Dean laughed through his nose. “Well, complicated.”

“How complicated are we talking?”

Dean rubbed his chin, then seemed to chew on his cheek. “Okay,” he muttered. “It’s gonna come out sometime…” He huffed out a sigh. “Like I said, Castiel is an angel. He was sent to rescue me from Hell. It was the first time I met an angel, and I had no idea. I just had this handprint burned into me.”

Okay, there was no way Piper would forget that whopper, and neither would Ellie or Nick, she figured, but they were professionals, and had since lost their incredulous miens. It was good, to make sure you believed your interviewee, because you had to consider that _they_ believed their story, even if large swathes of it seemed unbelievable or just plain not true.

“Go on, what else can you tell me?”

Dean scratched his head. “Uh, well, he and I haven’t always gotten along, but he’s like a brother to me. We’ve made our mistakes, probably because we make them in the name of trying to make each other better or see reason.”

“Could you list all of your motives for finding him?” said Nick.

“Is that important?”

“It would help. I need clear confirmation for my notes,” Ellie lied.

Dean bought it. Piper’d have to file that technique of Ellie’s away for future use. “Well, I care about him,” Dean began. “I can’t just leave him behind. But he’s also our best shot at getting home.” Dean nodded as if he had to force himself to believe that. “But I’m also worried about him here. I have no idea if he still has his powers. And he’s weird, okay? I’m talking awkward, a little clueless, but in that kind of adorable way that people can take advantage of.” He seemed to stop, as if counting the many times his friend had been manipulated. He shook his head of it. “If he _is_ powerless here, and this world kills people just because they uh, sorry, think they’re like you, only less able to tell, then yeah, I’ve got to find him before someone or something else does.”

Nick nodded. “ ‘Awkward’ and ‘a little clueless.’ That’s helpful. You got that, Ellie?”

“Sure did,” she replied.

“That’s a good place to start,” Nick said. “I’m sorry to tell you that your fears about his safety aren’t unfounded, but because of that, we might be able to track him down, especially in a place like Diamond City. Now I don’t recall any strangers coming our way recently, but that doesn’t mean a caravan hasn’t heard a rumor or two.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Now we need to talk about you. Where would Castiel go to find you or your brother?”

“Anywhere with a bar or something strange going on,” Dean said. “I know this city’s got to have at least one bar, but so did Sanctuary, and my version of weird seems to be commonplace around here.” Dean leaned back. “He’s kind of drawn to lost puppies, actually.”

“Actual puppies? Or misfits?”

“Misfits, people who go against the grain and are punished or put in danger because of it.”

“So…people like me and Nick,” Piper said.

“Precisely,” said Nick. “Piper, you said Preston Garvey had sent a team to Goodneighbor to investigate.” She nodded. Nick looked at both her and Dean now. “I think you two should stick around here a couple of days. Sounds like Castiel would avoid places that look too imposing, so I think we can set aside looking at the Brotherhood airship unless evidence suggests the Brotherhood has him somehow, and right now, it doesn’t. If he’s a survivor, he’ll know how to keep his head down, and if he cares as much about you and your brother as you say, I doubt the Commonwealth has eaten him alive just yet. Preston’s gut was right—a guy like that is going to head to here or Goodneighbor. Despite our security force, we’ve got me and Ellie and Piper here to lure him. Stick to Preston’s plan, for now. If things change close to our deadline, Piper, we can send word back with Paladin Danse. His methodology will only get in the way.”

Piper smirked. She’d be more than happy to get Danse out of her hair. “That’s a plan.”

“Just let me deal with the caravans,” Nick said. “I have a bad feeling about them, Piper.”

“Really?” Piper mulled that over. That was the kind of story that would invite bullets her way. Or more poison. “Anything solid yet?”

“Not yet. I wanted to talk to Nora first before we did anything.”

_Blue…_ Her chest tightened. “We need to get her home, Nick.”

“We’ll get her back,” he said. “Not sure how, but we’ll do it. She got over there somehow, didn’t she? Anyway, we both know she can handle herself. Hell, maybe she deserves a little reminder of the world she came from.”

That garnered a fleeting smile from her. “Right, of course.” Except if Blue liked it too much over there, she might never come home.

 


	13. .danse the night away. | .dean.

.danse the night away.

.dean.

* * *

Dean toasted with Danse, and wondered if Sam were having this much fun in Goodneighbor. Already, he and Danse had met with a pair of interested women.

Dean was less sure of the advice he had given Danse this morning. Sure, the guy was tight, a little intense at times, but so was Castiel, and Dean had a few years of working with Cas to learn how to reach a guy like Danse. Only Danse was less resistant to playing the part. Small things, like insisting Danse purchase new clothes from the Fallon’s in the market, had helped Danse shed some of that Brotherhood stiffness.

Dean checked his peripherals at every new figure that walked into the Dugout, in case it were Cas. It never was. At one point, Nick Valentine walked in, and the trenchcoat had given Dean a start. Nick did the rounds and promptly left, and after that, Dean felt a little guilty about trying to have a good time, because it was clear he was not doing nearly enough work by just sitting around and hoping Castiel would know to show up. He considered going undercover as a raider or a Gunner in the meantime, until Danse returned to the run-down sofas with more beers and some shots of Bobrov’s Moonshine, which Dean was eager to try simply because moonshine in a nuked world was probably either really dangerous or really good. Dean couldn’t resist the allure of trying something so damn unique.

They toasted, and drank, and Danse seemed hesitant to order more alcohol, because, as he’d confessed earlier to Dean, he didn’t really like drinking, but they continued to drink and eat and go through the waves of sober-buzzed-drunk-buzzed-headache.

The interested women backed off after some time, but the Dugout was lit up at this moment, packed with all sorts of citizens who joked about not being rich enough for the stands. A town celebrity joined the mix, Travis, whom Dean had heard on the radio in Sanctuary.

Dean and Danse moved onto water, and found standing room near the sofas, where their seats had been quickly filled the moment they had stood to order their non-alcoholic drinks. Spilled beer had whisked away the flowery perfume of their former interests, interrupted in intervals by fried mirelurk cakes.

“I’ve been having a good time tonight, Dean,” said Danse. “Perhaps this would have been the remedy I’ve been looking for, were it not for the headache I’m sure to feel from all that moonshine.”

“No problem, Danse.” Dean put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry we couldn’t find anyone _that_ interested in us.”

“Is this really what people do? Go out to find strangers and be intimate? Wouldn’t it be better to form a relationship with someone and then move it on appropriately?”

“If you have time for that. Guys like us can’t afford to settle. Lives are at risk.” Dean drank his water, forgetting for a moment that it was water, and grimaced at the taste. “I’ve been down that road before, and it’s far from pretty.”

“What happened?”

“I thought Sam was dead, so I settled down. Turns out he wasn’t, and Cas…” Dean shrugged his brows at that, took another sip that he expected to be beer, because this was the sort of story that required beer, and grimaced again. “Cas worried me.”

“You care a lot about him.”

“Yeah.”

Danse glanced around the joint. “Something else has been bothering me. The Companions, mostly.”

“They seem like a lot to handle,” Dean agreed.

“They are, but it is more along the lines of…this. I feel as if we are all competing for Nora’s attention.”

Dean smiled, and this time, remembered that he was drinking water. “Nora, huh? She that awesome?”

“She’s incredible. A focused, well-prepared fighter.”

“The others see her that way?”

“They see her all different ways, but we all agree loudly that she is fierce and worthy of our respect and care. Privately, or whispered behind each other’s backs, we seem to think she is worthy of our affections.”

Dean tossed his head to the side. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“Well, that makes sense. You were having fun, but you seemed guilty about flirting.”

“I have not made my feelings clear to Nora, but she has also made nothing clear to any of us. We do not know if she is monogamous, or not.”

“Wait, monogamy isn’t like, the default here?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Like you don’t just expect someone to be faithful to you?”

Danse’s featured scrunched. “Why would I place such a foolish expectation upon another if we haven’t talked about our relationship orientations yet?”

_Relationship ‘orientations’?_ “So this place is swingin’, huh?”

“Are you suggesting that romantic love is somehow finite, and can only be shared with one, while all other forms of love are infinite and shared by many, in your world?”

“That’s kind of what we think, I guess.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“That lady we overheard earlier? She seemed pretty upset that her husband was still pissed at her for shacking up with some bartender in the stands.” _God, listen to me. Coupl’a hours here and I already sound like a local._

“Perhaps it was the lie, not the act,” said Danse. “Anyhow, we have diverged from the point. I do have feelings for Nora, but I am unable to act upon them for there are so many other unknowns, and I do not wish to harm any of her other relationships if she reveals herself to be monogamous. I don’t want to harm our working relationship either, as she is involved with the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“You can be part of the Minutemen _and_ the Brotherhood…hm.” Dean finished his water. _Damn it, why is this still not beer?_ “Sam and I were talking about all that before we split.”

“About joining the Brotherhood?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t seem to think—he doesn’t see what I see in you guys.”

“You speak of our resemblance to your Men of Letters.”

“A little more, maybe. Still, the limited fun thing kinda bites.” He smirked and set the empty glass on the counter. “Gonna hit the head, be right back.”

Dean relieved himself for the second time that night in the shabby toilet, but he’d become used to that long before arriving here. It had running water, even if the water was a little murky. It was more like using water after a water main break had been repaired, and Dean supposed that as long as they kept the fresh stuff for drinking, he didn’t care what stuff went down with the piss and shit.

He came out to find Danse paying their tab to, who was he, that guy who wasn’t the funny one, over by the motel section.

“We done for the night?” Dean asked.

“I was hoping to eat something more appropriate for the alcohol intake. The noodles here are famous.”

“That outdoor kitchen? You sure that’s safe?” Dean finally understood Sam’s reservations for food trucks and hot dog stands. “Wait, that has the robot, doesn’t it?” It was probably fine. A robot wouldn’t break food-safety protocol unless it never had the programming to begin with. That’s what Dean was sticking to, anyway. _How does Sam function with all those worries bouncing around in there?_

“Yes. Brotherhood soldiers who’ve tasted them are divided on this particular issue. Robots were made to serve us, but this service is for leisure. Still, the noodles are exceptional. Ready to go?”

“Sorry to say, man, but the loan I got from Preston is dwindling.” He had trouble keeping track of so many caps. It was like carrying around bigger, though lighter, pennies. Couldn’t an orange cap be five caps, or a blue one be worth ten? Dean didn’t want to swindle a robot in a potential future home.

Danse smiled. “I have your back, Dean.”

They ventured out of the Dugout and headed for the noodle stand, which was open and thankfully without the noise of every vendor slinging their wares, with exception to the floating Mr. Codsworth in the back.

“Have a seat,” Danse said, waving a hand at a primo stool. Dean sat down, excited to chow on something after all that beer and moonshine—something a little more normal than roasted radiation fly or whatever it was—and folded his hands over the ledge of the counter.

“So are those Mr. Codsworths rare, or what?”

Danse chuckled heartily, earning the attention of the oafish robot working the stand.

“What?” asked Dean, trying not to laugh because Danse hadn’t struck him as the laughing type, even after all the shared jokes and smiles inside.

“Codsworth is the name of Knight Nora’s personal Mr. Handy robot. That one has a different name.” He settled. “It’s refreshing to be around someone without the same worries as everyone else.”

“Well, I’ve got ‘em,” said Dean. “Believe me, I’ve got ‘em, but I’ve gotten pretty good at covering them up.”

Danse put his hand on Dean’s back with a firm pat. “I used to think I was good at that too, until Scribe Haylen came along.” The robot in the chef’s hat—it was pretty cheesy but also kinda cute—said something in Japanese. “Yes,” said Danse. He leaned into Dean, with moonshine-clean breath, and uttered, “Just say ‘yes.’ ”

“Yes,” Dean said.

Soon, two bowls of thick, piping-hot noodles in normal-looking broth were served to them. Danse placed a whole pouch of caps into the robot’s apron pocket, and the two snatched utensils and ate.

Somehow, someway, the people in this fucked-up world had been blessed with a robot that made noodles so fresh and so good that Dean teared up. These were no instant noodles. These were made from flour and water and who knows what else, but they were good, with the right amount of saltiness, and they were the closest thing to home Dean had felt since splitting with Sam.

“You know what we call these back home?” Dean said, careful not to say “my world” since Nick and Piper had warned him of Diamond City’s fanaticism about synth-ness. “Delicious.”

Danse smiled as he slurped. “I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

“I’m totally moving here if we have to live here,” he said. “How much did you pay for a bowl of this, anyway?”

“Forty caps a piece,” Danse said, and Dean nearly choked. That seemed like a lot to him, more than he could fit in one hand, but how many caps equaled a millennial dollar, anyhow? They just seemed too cumbersome for anything to be that expensive. Even buying Danse’s rugged flannel at Fallon’s had seemed like a bit much to him.

“I’m afraid to ask about the tab,” said Dean.

“We did rather well. The women apparently paid for two of our beers. The moonshine was poured in shots. It ran 95 caps before tip, and then the extra ten for the room.”

“What’s that now?”

An eon passed before Danse swallowed his noodles. “I paid for a room.”

Dean couldn’t fault him for that. It was kinda shitty to share a tiny little uncovered bed with another grown adult. “At least you won’t be far from a bed if you pass out.”

Danse sipped his broth, having devoured most of his dish already. “Actually, I was hoping you would come with me.”

“To your room?”

“Yes.”

Dean hid behind a mouthful of noodles, the steam warming his cheeks, or maybe that was Danse’s invitation. “Piper might wonder where we are, considering…”

“I’d like to remain off her radar for a moment.” Danse passed the empty bowl back to the robot with a courteous bow of his head, too courteous for someone who seemed to hate autonomous artificial intelligence. “Will you join me?”

Dean swallowed. Danse’s earnest eyes pleaded with him, trying to communicate something the nosy guards couldn’t know, or maybe he was just being discreet. Dean looked around for Castiel, hoping for just a glimpse of his trenchcoat sweeping the streets. But instead, his eyes returned to Danse, who reminded him of Castiel in many ways, even a little in the jaw. A voice in his head, Danse’s voice, whispered, _“Just say yes.”_

The chimes near the Mr. Codsworth, er, Mr. Handy jingled to the proud, obnoxious delight of the floating robot.

“Yes,” said Dean.

Danse smiled, and let Dean finish his food in quiet as if that agreement had ceased all conversation between them.

“Are you, uh, still buzzed?” Dean asked, because he was starting to lose his buzz, and regain use of the things that drink often compromised.

“Vaguely. I do not intend on reversing this decline.”

“Good plan,” Dean said.

“Ready to go?” asked Danse.

“Yes,” repeated Dean.

They arrived back at the Dugout with no reception from the Bobrov tending the rooms, besides the glance to double-check they’d paid, and Danse led him to the room at the end of the hall. He let Dean enter first, then closed the door, clicking the lock. He sat on the bed, and with a look, invited Dean to join him.

Dean sat close to Danse, and put his hand on his knee. “So, what is it?”

“It’s about the Brotherhood,” Danse said, and Dean removed his hand. “I didn’t want to disobey orders, but given the urgency of your mission, I don’t believe the synth’s method is the right method. You need the backup of the Brotherhood. Our vertibird teams can do aerial recon and put metal boots on the ground to sweep troublesome areas for your friend.”

Dean swallowed. The bed, of course, it would help absorb the sound of their voices. “Why would they take the trouble for my friend?”

“Because the Brotherhood has a vested interest in closing the portal between our worlds, if it is even still open. Our enemy, this boogeyman that keeps getting mentioned, would violate your world in an attempt to secure its position in ours. The Brotherhood would not make you wait. We would act, and we will find your friend.”

Vertibirds. Those sounded like planes or choppers or something like that, and Nick had mentioned an airship too. Eyes in the sky would be good to have. Dean wasn’t so sure about Castiel’s survival instincts here. Sure, he’d blended in before, kept his head down, but only because he had stuck with Sam and Dean so long beforehand. Whom could he shadow here? How would someone not hear his first stupid attempt at a joke and not think he was synth? Judging from the chatter in the bar, people here had mixed views of Piper, and better views of Nick, but they didn’t seem all that famous. Those two were deluded into thinking their reputations were enough to lure Cas here.

Would it be worth getting involved with something so big, just this once? _Is it even this once, or am I just making another deal with the Devil?_

Dean looked Danse in the eye. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” he said. “If you want to. I can set off a flare and call a Vertibird to our side for pickup.”

Flying, oh god no, not flying. Dean didn’t think _he_ would be the eyes in the sky. Maybe this was a bad idea. “Pick up?”

“It will be safe.” He put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Flying is not as terrifying as it seems.”

“I’ve been on a plane before,” Dean said with a shudder.

“I haven’t, but this may feel the same. We fly lower than records indicate planes flew.”   Danse turned his head. “You look pale.”

“I’ll be fine. So we sneak back to Piper’s, grab our shit, and go?”

“Exactly. We may have to wait until Piper is sound asleep. She is persistent and clever.”

“She’ll want to make sure we haven’t run off anyway. We should probably head back.”

“I agree.” Danse’s hand slid across Dean’s back as he stood.

Dean laughed nervously, rubbing his knees. At least flying meant not walking. “You know, I had no idea you were going to say that when we got here.”

“I thought I’d made myself as clear as I could, given the covert nature of our conversation.”

“No, I mean, I just thought…anyway, it’s good we have a plan.”

Danse gazed at him. “Were you worried? I would not harm you.”

“That’s not…” Dean shook his head and finally got to his feet. “I thought you were hitting on me, ya know? Maybe thinking we could work on that unusual healing method together, and I kind of thought…given the room…this was an invite to, uh, you know, have more privacy.”

Danse blushed. “I…I suppose that interpretation was entirely likely.”

“You sound like him, sometimes, my friend Cas.” Dean cleared his throat. “Anyway, if you wanna take a nap here for a sec while I stay at Piper’s, I get it, I mean, I was just going with the flow. Because you’re great, actually, pretty great.”

“I’m great?” Danse perked a brow and stepped closer.

“Yeah.” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “You’re really…great, Danse.”

“It’s against protocol,” Danse said after a lengthy stare, “to engage in these acts with…”

“Right,” Dean uttered.

“No, with unknowns, for health purposes. You’re from another world Dean…”

They gazed at each other, chests rising and falling with adrenaline.

Dean shook his head. “Then let’s just pretend I didn’t open my big mouth and make an ass out of myself, and get our gear and go.”

Danse nodded. “Of course. I’ll notify the owners that we are relinquishing the room and meet you back at Publick Occurrences.”

Dean nodded to that, and as he passed Danse on the way out, he tensed, and considered turning around for one last glance. He didn’t.

After all, he and Cas had a complicated relationship, and, like Danse had said, maybe it was wise not to fuck anything up before they ever had that necessary talk, the one they never acknowledged, even when everyone else around them did.

 


	14. .two wrongs don't make a right. | .deacon.

.two wrongs don’t make a right.

.deacon.

* * *

“Where is he now?” asked Doctor Amari.

“Handcuffed to a radiator in the Rexford,” Deacon said. “I hope.”

Doctor Amari shook her head and looked at her notes. Her dark hair had become more frazzled than it was earlier today, and her light brown complexion had paled. Her visible distress worried him. Despite Deacon’s suspicions about Sam, part of him really wanted everything to be A-OK. “I don’t believe he is a synth,” she said, “though I’ve told you multiple times that there is no way to be sure without hurting him.”

“Yeah, but having you confirm that _his_ story wasn’t one of _yours_ is a start,” said Deacon. “You’re confirming that, right?”

“HQ should be more careful,” she said. “We cannot have you bringing in every person you think might be a synth.”

Actually, it was Deacon’s idea. He had only left a message via dead drop, not gotten one. Des and Carrington were probably going to kill him when he got back to HQ, but Amari didn’t have to know that. “What’s important is if _you_ think he’s a synth.”

“His memories are too outlandish, and not nearly perfect enough,” she said. “ _If_ the procedure worked as hoped. I have never guided someone through their memories that way. He was highly suggestible. What we witnessed on the screen could have been fabricated by the drugs you dosed him with.”

Deacon sank into the rough sofa and leaned his head against the cold, dark wall of Amari’s office. “But do you really think that? Given everything, this checks out, right? All that weird stuff?”

“I believe so, but only because I find it highly improbable that the Institute would create such a wild cover story, even for one of their sleeper spies.” She set down her clipboard and crossed her arms, her wrinkled eyes fixed in a glare. “Don’t lie to me, Deacon. Tell me why you crossed this line.”

_Yeah, because ‘following orders‘ somehow exempts you from having crossed it too._ “The idea just kinda hit me,” he said. “Honest.”

She tapped her foot. “Someday, we could use this method on _you_ , Deacon. I’ve done my fair share of things that toe an ethical line—”

_No shit._

“—but perhaps this time, I would make the choice willingly.”

This was why Deacon hated visiting with Doctor Amari. She could be worse than Carrington or Des. “The last time I saw something get resurrected the way that deathclaw was, it was a feral, and that’s because a glowing one was nearby and healed it with its radiation burst or pulse or whatever it’s called. So forgive me if I’m stepping over any kind of line. This kinda stuff is beyond the boogeyman and all the monsters. It’s not _real_ , Amari. Not an ounce of it was ever real before, and now I’m just supposed to believe that some other world is leaking into ours? Really?”

“Yes,” Amari said. “And I have a title, Deacon. I find this just as unbelievable as you do, but it’s possible science has not explained it yet. Synths are a wonder of science, nuclear bombs were once a wonder of science, but someone figured those out. We have transferred sentience before. Could it become airborne and still be capable of directing its own movement? We do not know. What I do know is that the things this man has witnessed and endured are unlike what we’ve seen, but like us, he is a survivor. You should check on him. He’s been handcuffed to seemingly secure things before.”

_Thanks for nothing, Doc,_ Deacon thought. Connecting the Winchesters’ appearance with the Institute’s modus operandi would have been nice and neat. Castiel? An angel?

Who believes that kind of bullshit, anyway?

Luring some of the most powerful people in the Commonwealth with fantasies about portals and angels who can make them? A far shot, but one people _could_ believe if they were convinced. Deacon had gotten people to believe some seriously rank bullshit before, so maybe this wasn’t that far-fetched. What better way to lure all those Institute enemies into one spot than to pretend someone vulnerable needed rescuing? That’s all Charmer did, was rescue people, take down people who hurt others, so of course a mission like this was bound to get her attention and the attention of those like her. That’s why the Winchesters had to split up. Deacon had to make each party weak enough to exploit so the truth could be uncovered before the Institute took them all down.

Deacon couldn’t chance killing them, not if their story was true and Charmer were actually in some other world. He wasn’t ready to believe that, but he couldn’t rule it out. This was his best shot, using Amari’s drugs and know-how to get a sleepy Sam into a suggestible state and pry into his memories.

He left Doctor Amari’s office and into the perpetually wet streets of Goodneighbor. A heated argument echoed from a nearby alleyway, where a rather normal-sized rat skittered. Deacon stuffed his hands into his pockets all drifter-like, and headed for the Rexford, avoiding the puddles and their reflections of bright neon.

Sam exited Hotel Rexford at that exact moment, and made an angry beeline for Deacon. “Not the face!” Deacon joked, but Sam didn’t respond to the humor and took a hardy swing. Deacon rubbed his jaw, wondering what it felt like to have a dislocated jaw, remembered that he knew this after a job gone _horribly_ wrong, and looked around to see the glances of onlookers coming to an end. This was Goodneighbor, after all.

Sam snatched Deacon at the collar and tore off his sunglasses.

“Hey!” Deacon protested. “I need those for my eyes, and stuff.”

Sam bored his angry hazel eyes into Deacon’s exposed ones. “Give me one good reason not to put those cuffs on you and leave you outside the wall.”

“I’m hilarious, for one.” Deacon swallowed, his throat bobbing uncomfortably over Sam’s clenched knuckles. “Really. I’ve asked Hancock to let me perform at the Third Rail and everything.”

Sam leaned his head in the opposite direction, further drilling his scowl through Deacon. “Are the others in on this too? Did you separate me and Dean on purpose?”

“The thought might’ve crossed my mind.”

Sam threw him to the ground with a growl. “ _Don’t_ follow me.”

“Yeah,” said Deacon, wiping flecks of moist please-be-dirt from his blue caravan outfit. He’d narrowly missed a puddle with a urine-like odor and a urine-like hue. “Except I kinda have to, so maybe we can go back to the room, talk this over like adults and not so _out in the open_ like this.” He stepped forward, but Sam walloped him again, and oh. Hell. No. It was _on_ now.

Deacon returned a swing, but Sam blocked him, landing a punch to Deacon’s gut, and another to his solar plexus. “I…I needed…that…air…” Okay, laughing hurt. Laughing _definitely_ hurt.

A pair of hands lifted him off the ground. “Miss me?” said MacCready.

Deacon grunted and lifted his eyes at Sam, who had switched from an offensive stance to a defensive stance now that MacCready was here and clearly had chosen the best side in this fist fight. Good. Because Sam was a lot taller than he remembered him being. Did people even come that tall anymore?

Deacon spotted a Hancock-like figure begrudgingly standing from a comfortable lean on the State House’s balustrade, and then a burst of red hair belonging to Cait approaching from behind Sam.

“Putting on a show, are ya?” Cait leveled her gaze at Deacon.

“Hey.” Ouchies. _Seriously, lungs, you’re still hurting from that?_ “I’m not the one who threw the first punch.”

Sam’s lips curled into an incredulous laugh. “You drugged me and handcuffed me to a radiator.”

“Wait, whoa, whoa.” Cait had a heart sometimes. Her eyes flitted toward Sam’s wrists and then returned to Deacon. Deacon had to admit, he was enjoying this just a little. Nothing brought out a person’s true nature like interpersonal conflict resolution.

“You drugged our Winchester?” Hancock ashed his cigarette. “Okay, feel free to catch me up on this backfiring plan of yours.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen in the street,” said Deacon

Hancock put on a show for his citizens, welcoming Deacon and Sam in with forgiving pats, and led them back to his pad on the withered second floor of the State House. He gave a nod to his bodyguard, a woman whose connection to Hancock Deacon had thus far failed to figure out—relative? lover? just a bodyguard and that’s it?—and soon the room was secure from prying eyes and ears.

No one sat.

“You go first,” said Hancock.

“There’s news?” said Sam.

“Not ’til Deacon says something.”

“Look, all you need to know is that Sam is _probably_ not an Institute spy. You’re welcome?” said Deacon.

Hancock brought a hand to his face. “You wanna be a little more specific?”

“No, I kind of don’t.”

“Ain’t no way of telling who’s a synth ’til you crack open their skull, and seeing how our friend here’s alive and well, and lacking a thick set of stitches, I’d say you’re full of shit, as usual.”

“Look, Hancock,” said Deacon, voice losing all hints of humor. “The Winchesters’ story had all sorts of red flags, and there was no other way to learn the truth, short of us actually falling into this little world of his and being confronted with it head on.”

“How do you explain the deathclaw, then?” asked MacCready.

“Ask any butcher,” said Deacon. “They’ve got animal synths. Brahmin have been known to turn on their keepers.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Hancock. “But this? _This_ was wrong.”

“We were gonna ask him to do it anyway,” said Deacon.

“Do what?” Sam shot Hancock a betrayed scowl. “Get drugged? Are you serious?”

Hancock grumbled. “Shit, Deacon. You forget about the whole _asking_ him part of the plan?”

“Yeah, no,” said Deacon. “I kinda wanted something more reliable and less scripted.”

Hancock cursed quietly and shook his head. No one else said anything. Deacon felt Sam’s eyes burning into him, and in that fiery glare, Deacon knew Sam would figure something even worse out.

“This really was your plan,” said Sam. “You wanted to separate me and my brother.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Deacon’s upward inflection did not sell the joke. The others stared at him, waiting for another answer. “Fine. Yeah, you needed to be separated. You gotta understand something, Sam, this world is fucked, and there’s a lot at stake here if we invite the wrong people into our fold. Your story is so outlandish that you and Dean were either completely delusional, or up to something. The idea of another world was too impossible to be truth. Nora’s gone, and if you two were luring us into some kinda Institute trap, I had to be sure. There’s nothing more curious than a ‘what the fuck?’ story. And Preston took the bait. So yeah, I’m not going to just let those settlements fall like dominoes, put all the Companions in one spot, and let the Institute sweep us all up when we go to look for this magical individual who can help us find the most powerful person in the whole Commonwealth.”

Sam shook his head and paced. Hancock brought a hand to his face. Cait draped herself over the nearest sofa and bounced her feet in boredom. MacCready was probably thinking about devouring another ripe mutfruit in someone’s ear.

Hancock shook the anger from his face and stopped Sam. He gazed at the room like a guy who was a mayor, and urged everyone to sit the fuck down. It took a second, but everyone sans Hancock did, forcing Deacon to face the hateful eyes of Sam, and worse, to share a sofa with MacCready.

“On a brighter note, we think we caught word of your friend,” said Hancock.

Sam’s eyes widened, and he hopped forward in his seat, a feat for a guy who had to bend his legs like a spider on a sofa so low and so close to a table. “Is he here?”

Hancock turned the conversation over to MacCready, who said, “Whitechapel Charlie turned him toward Diamond City, as did Magnolia. Told him to go see Nick Valentine.”

“You trust those sources?”

Hancock vouched that with a nod. “They’re alright.”

“And they’re sure it was him?”

“Per the description you gave us, yeah,” said MacCready.

“Coupl’a folks said he was lookin’ for you two,” said Cait. “Said he looked alright, was packin’ a knife like everyone else around here.”

“Anything else?” Sam scanned everyone but Deacon. They all shook their heads.

“One of my guys told him which route to take,” said Hancock. “If he’s not stupid, he’ll take it. We might be able to catch up to him. He might not know he could make it there in a day.”

“Hold on, was he gone before we got here?”

“Oh yeah,” said Hancock. “Hours before we got here.”

“Maybe he’s already there.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to track him,” said Deacon, who got the glare and promptly raised his hands and shut up.

Sam stood. “Let’s go.”

“Hold up a second,” said Hancock, and Sam settled back into his seat. “Let’s make sure you’re hydrated first. No telling what side effects Deacon’s little experiment has.”

Deacon rolled his eyes, but he was used to getting reprimanded, so the hit didn’t make a lasting impression. He’d done what was necessary.

“I don’t want him around,” said Sam.

“Understandable,” said Hancock. “How about it Deacon? You think you can hoof it to the Castle and tell Preston about your royal fuck up?”

“I think I’ll just apologize profusely to Sam so you aren’t left one guy down in this operation.” He looked at Sam. God, this was the worst, having to defend your shitty actions to someone who had the power to take away your job. _I did drug him, though._ “Would you have agreed to be vaguely tested for your synth-ness if I’d asked?”

Sam crossed his arms. “What _exactly_ did you do to me?”

Hancock let out a soft laugh and signaled to the others. “Don’t let him touch my terminal, and try not to break anything,” he said before the group left them alone.

“Okay, I drugged you,” Deacon admitted. “I get that. But synths in this world are like, flesh and blood, pal.”

“I’m not your pal.”

“Right, noted. So I slipped a little herbal anodyne—” … _And Med-X and Day Tripper…_ “—Into your water, maybe a slightly higher dosage than necessary, and brought you to a mutual doctor friend of both me and the General. They have a safe way of showing people their memories on a television screen, so we might’ve fed you another suggestible drug—” … _More Med-X and Day Tripper…_    “—And kept you awake enough to hear the doc guide you through your memories.”

“Are you serious?” Sam put a hand through his hair, then clenched that hand into an eager fist. “Okay, okay, so you basically violated my consent _and_ my privacy.”

“When you put it that way…”

“There’s no other way to put it,” Sam said. “Are you satisfied I’m telling the truth?”

“I should remind you that we saw some questionable things in there. You and your brother holding people against their will while you grilled them about being monsters or demons or whatever? You’re not exactly a saint either, Sam Winchester.”

“So you’re saying I deserved it?”

“I’m saying maybe you can understand the methods used against an enemy.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“I know that _now_.”

Sam kept that fist ready, and took a deep breath. “This Institute really that bad?”

“They kidnap people and replace them with synthetic versions meant to spy on the Commonwealth. Sometimes they don’t replace anyone at all. So yeah, a lot of families and communities have suffered because of the Institute. Not to mention the suffering of synths who aren’t even aware they’re spying, who inevitably realize their lives are lies, and that all their health problems are a result of being a synth.”

Sam froze, and gave Deacon an unidentifiable, yet not quite blank look. “Did they hurt you personally?”

“What? No, I just hate slavers and bullies.”

Sam nodded, his fists softening into hands again. “Look, none of that excuses you for what you did, and it won’t _ever_ excuse you. I’m not gonna forgive you for what you did either. You don’t deserve it and you won’t _ever_ deserve it from _anyone_. But I’ve made sacrifices for family before and I’ll do this if it means saving them. So…I’ll work in the same space with you, for _now_.”

“The same space.”

“I’m not working _with_ you. You deserve nothing. You obviously aren’t fighting for a moral cause if you’re willing to do the things that made your enemy an enemy in the first place. Go to hell.”

“Eer, yeah, thanks, Sam.” Deacon took a deep breath and straightened his posture. Sam had struck a nerve, or maybe a heartstring. Deacon _did_ deserve worse than what he was about to offer. “Wanna punch me again for the road?”

“Yes, actually.”

_Ah, shit._ “Alright.” Deacon shimmied his shoulders and tensed again. “Lemme have it.”

 


	15. .everything is fine. | .piper.

.everything is fine.

.piper.

* * *

Oh, this was just great. Absolutely great. How could anyone expect her to track a story if she couldn’t even track the people _staying in her own house_?

Danny Sullivan couldn’t keep Danse away from his power armor for two freakin’ seconds?

Piper slammed her fist on the counter at the Dugout. Vadim’s chuckle came to a sharp death.

“Damn it, Vadim, don’t make me spill that little secret of yours to the public,” Piper said. She figured a guy like Vadim had some secrets, and that Blue’s little entanglement with him and his buddies at Beantown hadn’t put an end to them.

Vadim eyed Nick, who played the part well, though she sensed he had his reservations about her methods. She did too. Violence wasn’t her thing. Smooth-ish talking, sure. But violence? Pounding her fist on the counter was violent; it let Vadim know how hard she’d hit him if he didn’t comply, and that bothered her.

But Blue’s disappearance had dismantled this noble idea of hers, and with Danse and Dean gone, probably to the Brotherhood, god damn it— _God Damn It!_ —how could she get into the Prydwen without Blue _or_ Danse!?—the chances of finding Blue were slim. If they found this Castiel, judging from the importance the Winchesters placed on him, Castiel would want to wait to find Dean, and oh, of course, knowing the way the world works, Sam would probably get offended by Deacon or someone—no, definitely Deacon—and go off and his own and get kidnapped by raiders or Gunners or what was the difference anyway, and then Blue would just be in this weird limbo, remembering what life with no raiders or Gunners was like, and Piper would never see her again and would get stuck speaking in run-on sentences.

Piper stared at Vadim a moment longer, just to let that simmering silence boil and her thoughts calm. She narrowed her eyes, and his widened in response. She stared harder, trying not to get distracted by the thumbprint of mutfruit sauce on his peach, dimpled chin. “Where. Did. They. Go.”

Yefim Bobrov sighed from his post across the room and begrudgingly approached. He nudged his confused twin brother aside. “I remember the men you speak of. They were in here all night, all night, talking and flirting with two of the ladies who pick tatoes by the Wall. Then they get a room, not with the ladies, but together. They leave, come back, go to the room, then leave again a few minutes later, say they’re done with the room.”

Piper leaned back and shook her head at Vadim. “See? Was that so hard?” She returned to Yefim. “Could you describe the women for me? Or tell me their names?”

Just as Yefim opened his thin lips to speak, Nick placed a hand on Piper’s shoulder. “Piper.”

She held up a finger to Yefim and turned toward Nick’s indicated conversation. Her brows dipped, and she walked up to Hawthorne and his latest audience. His brown skin glowed in the light as much as his smile. “Can you repeat that?” she said to him.

Hawthorne, the Commoner from the Stands, went unfazed by Piper’s interruption. He smiled. Maybe that’s why he drank down here, because he knew poor people just ate tales of his adventures right up. Strange, to hear him engage in town gossip. He must’ve thought what he saw was quite the feat. “Which part?”

“The part where an out-of-towner grabbed Wellingham by the arms and shook him upside down despite the _powerful engine_ that keeps him upright.”

“Well—”

She waved her hand. “Just jump to the part where you tell me what he looked like and if security booted him or locked him up.”

Hawthorne seemed less happy about that. She wondered what he would say about Blue’s theory, about him being a descendant of one of her pre-war neighbors. God, she missed her. Blue didn’t always share a lot about her life beyond losing Nate and Shaun, but she shared small details with Piper. She trusted her not to put every last bit in the paper, and Piper never did.

“Strength of a mirelurk, wearing a trenchcoat, tie askew like he’s always ready to tussle.”

She groaned and rolled her eyes.

Nick stepped in. “How would you describe him to me? Hair, complexion, stature? Anything about his voice you can tell me?”

The audience was breaking up, and Hawthorne’s shoulders fell. “Short, brown hair, fair peach skin, blue eyes, I think. Aggressive, kinda rough voice. Honestly, Mr. Valentine, he seemed kinda different, mumbling about getting to his friends.”

Piper and Nick shared a look. “Did you happen to hear his name or the names of his friends?” she asked.

Hawthorne sighed through his nose and shook his head. “Nope, but I met one of them, I think. That’s why I came down here so early today.”

“Dean Winchester,” said Piper.

“Right. That’s the guy. We traded a couple of big fish stories last night before Siobhan and Jillian overheard us and latched onto him and his friend. But I remembered.” He tapped his head theatrically. “He’d slipped it into the conversation like it was nothing, like they were just meeting here for a beer. He was looking for the same dude. Well, he and his friend turned in for the night here, so I figured he’d be here, but…”

“You got carried away and forgot to ask Yefim.”

Hawthorne shrugged. “Hey, didn’t want to bother a guy who’d done a few shots of that moonshine. Figured he was still sleeping it off. Besides, the guy you’re looking for got carted off to security, to answer your other question.”

“Oh my god,” Piper said through a sigh. “You still managed to waste time and tell a story, Hawthorne.”

“Hey, I thought you liked my stories, Piper.”

“I don’t have time for them today.”

Nick nodded at him. “Thanks, Hawthorne. See ya around.”

“See ya, Mr. Valentine.”

As she and Nick beelined to the Diamond City Security office, she grumbled. “I love how Danny _conveniently_ forgot to mention he had Castiel in custody!”

“We have no idea how many other offenses he caused, Piper. Just listen to the story before rushing to conclusions.”

“I know, I know,” she said. She turned the corner so quickly, she almost slammed into Paul Pembroke. “But you’d think, given our rapport and the fact that _I explicitly asked him_ if he could keep an eye out for someone matching Castiel’s description, he could’ve, I dunno, _mentioned this_ when we harangued him about Danse and Dean this morning!”

“I think you know why he was reluctant. Hey, Piper, hang on a sec.”

She slowed to a stop and looked at him. “I know, Nick.”

“It doesn’t take a detective to see what’s going on. Hell, I was yelling at Ellie last night for moving a pencil. I don’t even _use_ pencils, though maybe I should, given the state of this noggin. I apologized, but even this old programming has been thrown for a loop. Nora’s close to us, closer to us than probably anyone else in the Companions, even Garvey. We need to keep ourselves in check, Piper, or we’ll never get her back.”

Damn it, now her eyes were doing that thing where they seemed to inflate and get itchy. “I know, Nick. I know. I just, um, you know, I was started to like getting to know someone for the sake of knowing them and not because I was writing a story.”

“You’re in your own story too, Piper. Don’t forget that.”

She nodded, inhaling deep. Knowing Nick was having a hard time helped ease some of her anxiety. The reminder of her humanity helped. She was not just a reporting machine, moving through this life with a noble mission.

They entered the Diamond City Security office and immediately spotted their charge. Castiel was exactly as described, world-worn, a little different, in a get-up reminiscent of Nick and some of the old posters she’d seen around the Commonwealth. _Now who’s telling stories, Piper?_ Their eyes met, and he stood, his hands wrapping around the bars of his cell. The security guard, she couldn’t tell who it was yet, glanced his way, as if reminding him that movement wasn’t allowed when he upset the people of the stands so badly.

“Hey,” Piper called out to to the guard, if anything, to ease Castiel’s worry, if an angel could even worry. “Can I get some service around here, or do I have to go straight to Danny Sullivan?”

“Ms. Wright.” Oh _great_. It was Broderick. The “shoot first” officer of the law. Outside Diamond City, that kind of mentality kept one alive, but inside, Piper felt the citizens deserved something a little better, protection not just from the dangers of the Commonwealth, but from some of its ideas too.

“Broderick. I need you to release that prisoner.”

“That’s not happening, Ms. Wright. He assaulted Wellingham and demonstrated feats of extraordinary strength. He’s a synth.”

“Oh, is he now? I’m surprised you didn’t _shoot_ him.”

“He did,” Nick said, and upon glancing, Piper spotted the splotch of blood soaking Castiel’s collared shirt. It had barely bled onto his trenchcoat. Shouldn’t it have done that? Had it healed that quickly? Were his clothes just that good at their job? Was he not wearing his coat at the time? Why not?

“Great,” Piper uttered. “Good job, Broderick. Next stop, the Mega Surgery Center? Gonna cut open his skull and look for wires?”

“You got a thing for synths now?” Broderick said.

“I’ve got a thing for justice, and not assuming things about people and ruining their lives because you’re too stupid to consider the whole picture.”

“He’s not human, Ms. Wright. No human could do what he nearly did to Wellingham.”

“And Wellingham is a robot, remember? With synthetic AI? Or is he suddenly a person to you? What is it, Bully Broderick? Is this assault or destruction of property? Because if you’re so anti-synth, you have to include Wellingham in there.”

“Wellingham is an exception, Ms. Wright. Much like Mr. Valentine. They follow the rules and provide great services to our community. As does Mayor McDonough, who is not a synth, but if he were, _and he is not_ , he too would be an exception, no matter how anti-synth you are.”

“I’m anti-Institute, not anti-synth. Last I checked, it was Diamond City, ruled by _the office of the mayor_ , that was anti-synth. Anti-everyone, actually, whose insides and outsides don’t look like us, unless they do something good for us. But the second they stop, oh, well then let’s toss ’em in jail or kick ’em out of town or _shoot them_!”

“Sorry to be the third wheel in this conversation about synths,” Nick stepped in, “but our friend here is part of an active investigation at my agency. We really appreciate you finding our guy for us and hanging onto him. Little unnerved he’s wounded, but that’s fine.”

“Nice try, Mr. Valentine, but I’m not releasing him. He hasn’t even given us a name yet.”

“It’s Castiel,” said Piper.

Castiel perked up.

“And anyway,” said Piper. “You can’t just jail a citizen from outside your jurisdiction and keep him indefinitely. Think of the diplomatic consequences”

“My juris-what?”

_Oh, right._ Blue had explained a lot more about the nuances of jurisdiction, a word that had slipped out of Nick’s mouth one night while the three of them chatted about nothing in particular. Blue had mentioned having a law degree, and how she and Nick 1.0 could’ve eventually crossed paths if the war hadn’t come to Boston. Anyway, Piper would have to write a historical piece on pre-war law sometime, season it with tales from Blue and Nick to make it an interesting read. Maybe give some of the straight facts to the school for the kids. That way, people like, oh, say, those who worked for Diamond City, would know what jurisdiction meant.

“It means that as a citizen of…the Capital Wasteland, Castiel has certain, uh, considerations you need to make before deciding his fate.”

“The crime was committed here, Ms. Wright. There’s no immunity for him.”

“I didn’t say there was.”

“Well, I doubt his people are going to show up on our doorstep, so there’s nothing additional to consider.”

“Fine. How much would it take to release him?”

“Ms. Wright, are you offering me a bribe? That’s an illegal act.”

“No, I’m asking you if he has fines or bail or anything _legal_ that needs paying so he can be released.”

“He does have a fine.”

“Good, how much?”

“And damages owed to the Colonial Taphouse to cover the costs of repairing Wellingham.”

She grumbled. “Okay, _how much_?”

“640 caps.”

Damn it. There goes her donation to _Publick Occurrences_ ’ distribution fund. The Winchesters weren’t even from around here, _at all_ , so she’d never see those caps again, unless they found a way to drink 640 bottles of free Nuke Cola before they left. That seemed like too much for anyone to handle, even if they had a sweet tooth like Piper.

“Fine. Draw up the papers and I’ll pay it.”

“We expect payment in full the day of release.”

“Grr. _Fine_. Draw up the papers. I’ll be right back. Nick, can you hang here for a minute?”

“Sure thing, Piper.”

She caught the seeds of a grin on Broderick’s face when she returned and plopped down all 640 caps. She grumbled again before she and Nick wordlessly brought Castiel back to Nick’s office.

Castiel had his senses, because he remained quiet too, but the moment they entered the office, a vicious question escaped his mouth. “Where’s Sam and Dean?”

“Let’s take a few steps back here and do some official introductions.” Nick nodded to Ellie. “You probably heard our names back at security, but I’m Nick Valentine, and this is my detective agency. Ellie here keeps this place together, and Piper Wright is a reporter.”

“Castiel,” Castiel said after a few beats, and he took the offered seat.

“Nice to meet you, Castiel.” Piper leaned against the wall near the door. Ellie took her spot against the desk.

Nick sat across from him. “Your friends are here in this world,” Nick started, “though they aren’t here in Diamond City with us. They got lucky and ran into a pretty good guy by the name of Preston Garvey. We’ve been trying to find you on their behalf so we can get the three of you home.”

“And get one of ours back from your world,” said Piper.

Castiel turned in his seat, eyes lamenting. “I met her.”

Piper’s nerves swelled and crested like waves. “You met her?”

“I’m sorry. It didn’t go very well. I thought she had taken Sam and Dean. We fought briefly before I fell into this world.”

“Did you _hurt_ her!?”

“No. We hardly exchanged blows.”

Piper settled back onto the wall as Castiel turned his chair to include her better in the conversation. At least he had some manners. “But she looked alright?”

He nodded. “Where are Sam and Dean? Why aren’t they here?”

Piper nodded to Nick. She still had the “Blue is okay” jitters.

“Garvey assigned a team to each of them and sent them to two major hubs here in the Commonwealth. As you’ve seen, we’re nothing like the world you came from.”

Castiel eyed Nick up and down. “Yes, I see that.”

“Sam went to a place called Goodneighbor. A little rough, but we know the mayor. Dean, well…Dean came here with Piper and another guy of ours, Danse.”

“But he’s not here any longer?”

Castiel was difficult to read. Dean had mentioned he was a little awkward, but that wasn’t entirely at play here. What was hard to read was the meaning behind the subtle differences in his reactions to Sam and Dean’s stories. He seemed to care for them equally, but _differently_. Sam was Castiel’s Nat. Dean was Castiel’s…Blue.

God, this was going to be such a shitty move.

“Dean and Danse shacked up and hightailed it out of here, probably to find you,” she said. Castiel swallowed hard. _You had to know. It makes a difference._ “They left sometime last night, but when we went looking for them, we heard about you.”

“Why would Dean do that?”

“Danse is part of a group here called the Brotherhood,” said Nick. “They’ve got technological means, but a fanatical idea about how to run the world. From what I understand, Dean’s got quite the prowess when it comes to hunting things he thinks are monsters. That’s a quality the Brotherhood would appreciate.”

Castiel’s eyes veered away from everyone. “You are correct. He…has a tendency to err on the side of caution when it comes to eliminating threats.”

“Well that’s sugarcoating it,” said Piper. “He decapitated ferals like it was his life’s passion.”

“Still, you mean to say that Dean left with this Danse, one of your own, because he thought the Brotherhood was an…attractive option.”

“Look, they _might’ve_ shacked up. They were seen renting a room and then leaving moments later. It’s possible they wanted to talk about their plan to leave in private. A room here only costs ten caps, much less than your fine. By the way, if you’ve managed to scrape up any caps on your way here, I’d be super grateful if you’d consider paying that back.”

“I’m afraid currency has been no concern of mine since arriving.”

“Right, of course not.”

“We need to find Dean.”

“I agree,” said Nick. “The trail could go cold soon. There’s still the matter of that wound, and that Sam and the team taking care of him have yet to—”

“Ooph!” Piper stepped away from the door. “Watch it, Hancock! I was leaning on that.”

“Sorry, Piper, but we heard people—”

“Cas!”

Sam Winchester rushed in and embraced Castiel. The stream of Companions didn’t seem to care that this place was tiny. Piper found refuge beside Ellie.

“This isn’t exactly up to fire code.” Nick stood to greet everyone. “Sorry, pre-war joke there. I’d explain it, but then Piper’s next story would have the town up in arms about fire safety.”

“Huh?” Piper said.

“Another time,” Nick said.

“Where’s Dean?” asked Sam over the sounds of shuffling and shoving and Deacon’s grumbling at MacCready. Piper sighed and opened a box of gum drops. She showed them to Ellie, who shrugged and held out her palm, and the two of them gnawed on them while the Companions got situated and ready to hear the news of Piper’s failure.

“Seriously,” Sam said. “Guys, where’s my brother?”

“What happened to your hat?” Piper asked.

Sam glared at Deacon. “Got lost somehow. You wanna tell me where Dean is?”

Piper popped a gum drop in her mouth. She was chewing, see? She couldn’t answer with a full mouth.

Nick sat back down. “Sam, maybe you should take a turn with me—”

“He’s with the Brotherhood,” Castiel said.

Sam leveled a glare at Piper. “Seriously? You let him go off with that zealot?”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Hancock muttered.

Castiel held Sam at the shoulders. “Don’t blame her. It was Dean. He is…perhaps enamoured by this Danse. They…” Castiel lowered his voice for some reason. “They rented a room together.”

Sam returned his accusing glare to Piper, who had already run out of gumdrops. “I thought you lived here? You didn’t have them stay with you?”

“That’s—Yes, they were staying with me. Except for that time they went to a bar and then rented a room for a few minutes.”

“A few…?” Sam’s anger softened into empathy. “Oh, Cas, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry to be accidentally nice to you, Sam,” said Deacon, shouldering MacCready. “But there’s no way there’s some weird cross-dimensional love triangle happening here. The Brotherhood has a strict ‘don’t risk getting a weird disease’ policy, and Paladin Danse is kind of like a walking role model of the Brotherhood. Given that, and given this place’s paranoia with newcomers and the gossip-y, eavesdropping nature of its citizens, including the watchful eye of Team Leader Piper, I’d say Danse rented that room precisely to create this narrative and keep anyone from hearing where he was taking Dean. I mean, that’s what I would do if I were working for the Brotherhood.”

Castiel looked relieved to hear that version of it again, but Sam returned his stare to Piper.

“What?” She lifted herself from her spot and stepped toward him as best as she could in this crowd, which seemed to part in anticipation of something entertaining. _Lowlifes_. “We had an order to stay put for a few days, a plan put in place to catch up to your friend Castiel here. And look who showed up _literally_ within that time span! Castiel! How was I supposed to know that Dean would do something desperate when we already had a more logical plan in place? I mean, _jeez_ , sure people around here live in a state of desperation most of the time, but they don’t compromise important relationships unless they’re bad guys. I had every reason to trust that Dean would stick around until Castiel arrived. We called in all the Companions, for god’s sake, to go on a massive hunt for him! The Brotherhood would _dissect_ Castiel before handing him over to Dean! Just look at him! Even our own security shot him!”

“Wait, what?” Sam attempted to step back and get a good look at his friend. “Cas, are you okay? Do you have your powers?”

“Some of them. The injury is healing quickly, though not as quick as I’d like.”

“See what I mean?” said Piper. “Sticking to the plan was Dean’s best option. Why on earth would I think he’d put something so important, something _he brought up in the first place_ , at risk to go run off with Danse _at this stage_? How was I supposed to know he’d sell his soul to the Devil to do this?”

Sam glanced at Castiel, who returned the knowing look. “Sorry, Piper. Dean is my responsibility.” He turned his eyes toward Deacon. “We never should’ve split up.”

Deacon shook his head, shoved MacCready out of the way, and left. It was one of the more genuine reactions Piper had ever seen from him. The door swung back with a heavy _slam_.

“Hold on,” she said, swimming through the Companions. “Nick, it’s your show now. Fill me in on the plan when I get back.”

She followed Deacon, uttering “pssts” and a “Hey!” when watched, then his name when they weren’t. He didn’t turn back, but he was heading up the stairs to the exit. She ran to catch up with his speed walk, and barely made it to the top of the steps in time. She grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and said, “Johnny D, stop and listen to me, damn it!”

He glared at her, oh yes, she could feel it even though she couldn’t quite see it through his shades. “You think I like everyone seeing a reporter chase me out of town?”

“Oh, please, as far as they know, I’m trying to get you talk about tales from the caravans, or whatever. Now get back to that office and help us find Blue.”

“Nope, not happening.”

“So you’re just giving up? Just gonna go back to… _that place_ and give up? Tell your boss Blue’s gone for good? You _asshole_.”

“No, I’m gonna go find a different kind of asshole and drag him back to Sanctuary by his ears.”

“Fine, I’m going with you.”

“I work better alone. I don’t need you.” He turned heel.

“Wait. Don’t you wanna know how I got that name?”

“You have me confused with an Atom Cat.”

She grabbed him again, and he pushed her hand off, though didn’t keep walking. “No, I don’t. And you do need me. You can’t kill Danse.”

“Who said I was going to kill Danse?”

“Your walk.”

“Maybe I’m having an internal crisis having to do with something that happened on the road. Maybe I just really have to pee and can’t find the public toilet. You don’t know.”

“I hate the guy too, but Blue _doesn’t_.”

Deacon looked around. “Trust me, Piper, just this once. I’m going to find Dean, and I’m not going to kill Danse. I promise you that. Danse is…going to need our help soon. But I can’t promise I’m not gonna hit him in the face for ruining this mission.”

“I…believe you.” She shook her head. “Hold on, why would Danse need our help?”

“I have a hunch, Piper. I’m not saying more, and you need to put a lid on that too. I’m _trusting you_ with this. You need to trust me.”

“I just said I believe you, jeez. I won’t say anything.”

“Thanks. I promise I’ll be back for our next smoke break.”

“You’d better.”

He smirked and gave her a wave.

She sighed and headed back to Nick’s office. Of everything she’d learned today, one thing shined brighter than the rest: the Winchesters were trouble, and they spread it everywhere they touched. Getting Blue back with or without them had to be a priority, even if it meant doing something her heart would regret.

 


	16. .fusion. | .dean.

.fusion.

.dean.

* * *

 

Dean peeled the wood off the window and peered outside of the brick building, gun ready and low. “I don’t see ’em.”

“They could still be out there,” said Danse, watching the other entrance, gun poised. “Hold position.”

“We’ve been holding this position for the past three hours.” Dean relaxed and headed for the dilapidated wooden chair. He plopped down. “I’m done, man, I’m done. I’m sick of sieges. Let’s just get out there and put ’em down.”

“No.”

“I’m not one of your soldiers. We shoot another flare, sure, fine, they remember we shot one before, but we could also be calling in those friends of yours who seemed unable to see the first one.”

“…We can’t shoot another flare, Dean.”

“And why not?”

“Because they were stolen from my possessions in Diamond City, but the thief forgot one.”

“You coulda told me that before you made me sit here and watch these guys!” He rubbed his face. “You know how many times I coulda popped that mutant?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t have all that fancy armor, Danse. I have to rely on opportunity, and I had it. Now we can’t see ’em. I say we make a plan, and get moving.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

“To Oberland or whatever. We’ll buy another flare and we’ll just go back to the original plan.”

“Oberland will not have the flares I need. Besides, a Brotherhood outpost, one under my command, lies across the water.”

“So why didn’t they see our flare?”

“I am unable to answer that qu—”

They stilled. The super mutant had returned, grumbling. “Where is human?!”

“Master Punch,” returned the mutant’s Mr. Cods—Mr. Handy. Dean mouthed the name to Danse, who shrugged. “My sensors may need recalibrating.”

“No more waste time,” said Punch. “Robot find human.”

“I cannot find the human.”

“Not _the_ human. Any human. Hungry!”

Dean crept to the window. He had a perfect shot, and signaled such to Danse.

“Let us return to our original plan, Master Punch.” The mutant hound sniffed the air, but couldn’t catch the scent. “The little one can feast on the Brahmin. And remember, you don’t eat humans anymore.”

“What plan? What Brahmin? Why you talk so much, robot?”

The robot sighed. Dean briefly lost his shot, not just in the gesture the robot made, but in thinking about why a robot would need to sigh if it had no lungs. Did people really need small things like sighing to humanize AI?

“The plan, Master Punch, to get food. Before we saw the flare.”

“Oh, right, food plan. Feed baby.”

“Yes, feed the little one.”

“Need human for plan!”

Dean lost the shot again. He didn’t want to chance taking down the robot and sending the more powerful foe after them. The super mutant was his target. He wished Danse could tiptoe over without alerting them.

“What baby?” Danse mouthed.

Dean shrugged. “No baby,” he mouthed back. The robot moved; Dean raised his gun. Now the mutant hound was walking in circles around them. The robot moved some arm again. _For fuck’s sake._ “Dog is baby,” he mouthed.

Danse shrugged in confusion.

“Dog…” Dean mimed a dog, with paws and a tongue hanging out, “is baby.” He rocked an invisible baby, too fast and too wide for any invisible mother’s liking.

Danse’s features fell. He signaled to shoot it.

“It’s a puppy!” Dean mouthed.

Danse gave the command again.

Dean lined up the shot, oh god, he was going to kill a puppy. It wasn’t its fault that it didn’t look cute and cuddly and that its master was a people-eating super mutant. _Who are you, Sam? Danse has a point. Killing the one thing both of those care about will disorient them enough to give us the advantage. Or we could just wait this out and let some poor farmer lose their weird two-headed cow._

The trio turned away, back to the road Danse said led to the soggy banks they’d fought those ferals in. Dean aimed, couldn’t take the shot—targeted the super mutant, and—

The super mutant turned suddenly and faced Dean. “Oh! Oberland! Eat green stuff!”

“Yes, Master Punch! Excellent! Well done…”

Dean fired.

Missed.

“Damn it,” he uttered. Danse joined him at the window and fired. The super mutant and the robot fired back. The “puppy” caught on, and raced toward their location. Then got distracted and ran back to the boots of the super mutant.

“Go that way, little one!” The super mutant nudged the puppy hound with his foot. “Go that way! Stay out of fire!”

“I’ve lost eyes on the robot!” said Danse, firing at the super mutant.

“Same here! Puppy too.”

“It needs to die, Dean.”

“I know—” Shit, that bullet nearly hit Dean’s ear, but instead hit the questionable ceiling, raining dust and probably something toxic on his head. “I know that!” He coughed, the battle continuing to stir up endless clouds of dust. He fired, blinking particles from his eyes, and the hostiles fired back, but from where…? “By the car, Danse!”

“ _DON’T FIRE!_ ” Danse barked.

“They gonna blow? Shit!” Dean ducked as the window near him cracked. The walls here hadn’t held up as well as Dean had initially thought.

“We’re pinned,” said Danse. “We need to move.”

“We have cover here.” Dean fired again. Dust burned his nose. “Sort of.”

“There’s cover by the road.”

“Yeah? And what about all that mud?”

“And higher ground.” Danse kicked another wood panel, exposing another window. Oh, _that_ cover, near the billboard. He threw more boards to the ground, and smashed the frame with his armored fists. Bricks tumbled to the road below.

“And what do you suggest we do, jump off the second floor and hope for the best?”

Danse scooped him up. “Yes.”

“Wait!” Dean latched onto…something— _please don’t pinch my fingers_ —and Danse leapt—

_“I’m the one who held you tight and raised you from perdition.”_

—and was suddenly ascending; ascending toward that cliff guarded with trees, ascending while bullets and lasers flew and faded…they ascended further, and further, the rough cliff approaching, getting nearer, so near Dean could count the twigs shooting off the branch of that tree, could see himself touching that billboard—

Something hit them. They veered hard to the right, speeding like an out-of-control comet, narrowly missing a boulder near an abandoned fruit shack. They fell with an explosive _thud_ beside the jagged remnants of a house.

The shock ran through Danse’s armor and into Dean’s body. He swore, Danse swore, and when Dean shook it off and attempted to run to the nearest tree, to the cliff they’d made it to the base of, Danse didn’t move.

_Blip._

What the hell was that sound? “Come on!” Dean waved him over, pulling a muscle in his ribs. “Let’s move!”

“Dean, listen to me.”

“What the hell’s wrong? Come on, the bullets stopped for a second! We lost ’em for now, but they’re gonna find us _real_ soon if you don’t move your ass!”

“Dean…Dean I need you to do something and I need you to remain calm.”

_Blip._

“What?”

“The fusion core on my back is about to blow.”

“What?!”

“Manual ejection is stuck. I can’t get out.”

_Blip._

It was Danse’s power armor, warning him of the imminent threat.

_Blip._

“That’s a nuke, Danse, that’s a fucking _nuke_!”

“I know. We’ll be alright. Just take a deep breath.”

Nope. Demons, the apocalypse, witches, fucked-up alpha monsters, the Darkness, fine. But a nuclear reactor about to go off on his friend’s back? After his last conversation with Sam was an argument? _Just breathe like Danse said._ “What do I do?”

“Turn the wheel, take the fusion core, and throw it as far away from us as you can.”

_Blip. Blip._

Dean took another deep breath and gripped the wheel. He gave it a turn to the left. To the right. Nothing. “Which way?! Which way do I turn it?”

“The other way!”

A plume of what he hoped was only steam spewed into his face. Dean couldn’t get the wheel to budge. “It’s—I can’t—”

_Blip. Blip. Blip._

“We’re running out of time!”

“This thing’s giving me the facial from hell here!”

“Dean, _breathe!_ ”

Dean snatched Danse’s laser rifle, careful to keep it aimed away from both of them, and his hands away from the trigger. He shoved it into an open space in the wheel—it just barely fit, god damn it—and little by little, he coerced the wheel to move.

_Blip blip blip. Blip blip blip._

“Is there a _live gun_ on my back?”

“Can’t be any worse than a god-damned _nuke_!” Dean gave it one last _oomph_. “Got it! Now what?”

“There’s a lever for manual ejection, which’ll also open the suit! See it?”

“See it!”

_Blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip blip._

Dean pulled the lever, a small but petulant switch that bent the tips of his fingers in a direction they refused to go in. _Snap!_ The core popped out an inch, enough to grab. The suit ceased beeping, but continued to cage Danse.

“Uh, Danse, it’s not—”

“The core needs to be fully removed! It won’t just open and risk flinging a dangerous fusion core!”

Parts of the core glowed red hot, other parts were probably getting there soon. Dean took Danse’s advice, steeled his breath, and snatched the fusion core. He cried out, his skin burning and hissing, and everything in his body told him to drop it and run, but he held it—god damn it he _held_ that son of a bitch—and he ran. Behind him, the suit emitted a hydraulic sigh. Dean didn’t bother to look. He ran across and down the road, toes kicking loose but heavy asphalt. Ran to the edge of the soupy riverbed, where corpses of ghouls lay decapitated and dismembered.

“Fuck!”

Too hot to hold.

He lobbed it. Skin peeled off, burning from the loss of layers and intense heat of the core. Dean instinctively reached for his injured dominant hand, wanted to watch the core land to be sure it was far enough away, wanted to reel in pain, but something told him to _go!_ , and he ran toward Danse, who ran toward him. Danse grabbed him. They dashed in the direction of their camp, forgetting the abandoned power armor, and when the white flash pierced their eyes, Danse threw Dean beneath him on the _boom_ of the core’s expiration. A gale of heat swept over the half-wall Danse had forced them behind.

Dean spit out the bitter twig he’d fallen on, and with Danse’s help, turned his aching body over until his back was against the splintered half-wall.

“You’re shaking,” said Danse.

“I’ve never, um, been that close to something like that.” He blinked his eyes of the explosion’s after-image. “God damn it, that was bright.”

“I lost the hostiles.”

“Same.” Dean looked at his gruesome hand, his head dizzy. “Think I could ever shoot a gun again?”

“We’ll get you patched up. Scribe Haylen is just across the water. If we can avoid the hostiles, we can hit the safe zone and make it back without incident.”

“No docs in Oberland?”

“Not as good as Scribe Haylen.”

“We still need to head there. Those freaks are gonna hit it.”

“My weapon is stuck in my armor. My armor is useless, and what’s left of my supplies are still strapped to it. We’ll have to wait for the residual rads to clear. We should get treated for rads too.”

“Sorry about your gun. I had to pry you outta there.”

“It is not a complaint.” Dean hissed in pain, and Danse put a hand on Dean’s shoulder in comfort. “It was a risky move, but it worked. I wouldn’t take that as an indication to do it again.” He looked at Dean’s hand. “You had a stimpak in your things back at camp. Anywhere else hurt?”

“Aside from whatever Gs we took on that hard landing, probably just that radiation.”

“We should head back and get the healing process started before anything else.” He grabbed Dean’s good hand. “Come on.”

Dean nodded and let Danse lift him. He hated how losing something as simple as a palm could impact major things, like how to support yourself to stand while adrenaline shakes your body. His stomach lurched, demanding he tend to his injury. Once he was steady, he awkwardly reached for his gun and handed it to Danse. “Take it.”

Danse took it with a nod. They trudged back to camp, cautious but quick, and retrieved Dean’s pack. They shared his water, with Dean taking most of it after Danse injected Dean with their only stimpak.

Dean leaned his head against the wall he sat along and let the stimpak work its magic. “This feels pretty good.”

“You’ll need more, but this should help.” Danse sat beside him. “I’m sorry about this. It wasn’t a good call. I should have taken us straight back to the police station outpost.”

“We can head back to Diamond City. See if Sam is there yet.”

“That’s not the course I’d like to take, but you’re not under my command.”

“So you’d come with me?”

“I would not leave you behind.”

Dean flexed his fingers and hissed. It still hurt, but some of the skin damage looked like it was healing. Certain cauterized wrinkles stood their ground. “This is neat.”

“How do you heal back home?”

“Well,” Dean turned his hand over, then back again, “we just clean it up and wait.”

“Sounds to me like this is one positive thing to look forward to if we can’t get you home.”

A small laugh escaped Dean. “Yeah, I guess so. Some other things too.”

Danse looked at him. “Like what?”

“There’s some good people here, I guess.”

“You guess?” Danse laughed. “Your world must have some good people too.”

 _None left alive._ “Nah, we’re a bunch of assholes.”

They laughed.

“Well, I don’t believe it. Unless I’m an asshole too. It’s part of the job description.”

“Nah, you’re good.”

“Some would say ‘great.’ ”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“I can’t recall.” Danse nuzzled him. “Some asshole, I think.”

Dean smiled and leaned against Danse’s forehead. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

_Click click click click._

The two turned their heads. The mutant hound puppy wagged its nub of a tail and bounded for them. Danse reached for Dean’s gun, but couldn’t get to it before the puppy leapt on Dean and…

Licked his face.

“Oh my god…”

“Get off him!”

“Wait, it’s…” Dean chuckled. The puppy pressed its cold nose to Dean’s neck, sniffed furiously near his ear. “It’s just a…” A loud laugh. “Get off me, little guy, you’re gonna give us up.”

Danse lifted the hulking puppy off Dean, only to find it squirm and try to lick his face too. Danse stumbled, trying to contain the writhing pup, and eventually won. He set it down and gave it a push back toward the busted door it came through. It wagged its tiny tail and gave them a coy little look, begging them to play chase.

Dean got to his feet and and helped Danse push the puppy away, but it was a pretty massive puppy, and stubborn too. It slithered between their feet and when they turned to catch it, they heard it.

“Humans!”

The robot barreled toward them, and lifted one of its metallic tentacles. A nozzle sprayed them with a lulling mist.

 


	17. .impressions. | .sam.

.impressions.

.sam.

* * *

“The funny thing is, this happens to Nora too,” Nick told Sam. “Something comes up, goes wrong, and her main goal has to get set aside to work on something else.”

“Sounds a lot like the world Dean and I came from.”

“But they’re not similar enough. I just hope you’re prepared for the worst case scenario.”

Sam looked down the riverside road. Pocked with potholes and lined with what were once happy homes, it seemed to Sam that at any moment, a tumbleweed would drift by, but even then, that meant something, other than nothing, was still there. “We’re sure they came this way? Absolutely sure?”

“It makes sense,” said Nick. “Our buddy back at Hangman’s confirmed seeing an armored soldier with a civilian head this way, and Danse commands an outpost across the river.”

“But how can we be sure? We’re not far from Diamond City. We could turn back now and still catch up to them if they took another route.”

“I have a hunch, more than a hunch.”

Castiel caught up to them. “Something isn’t right, Sam.”

Sam glanced back at the group. Hancock and Cait laughed about something. Piper looked right back at Sam, overt about her intentions to get the latest scoop. MacCready had volunteered to send word to Preston and get the Minutemen on alert, so he wasn’t with them. Sam was okay with that; the guy had a merc look and feel to him, and at times acted more juvenile than Dean.

“I told you,” Sam whispered. “Hancock doesn’t want to be healed.”

“No, not that. I sense numerous dead, and some kind of…energy.”

“This was a war zone, Cas. Your angel sensors are going to be a little overtaxed.”

“No. I could not sense them as I wandered this wasteland. It has become more intense in this specific area.”

“The angel’s right,” said Nick. “My sensors indicate radiation, already at levels safe for humans, but more than usual. Don’t worry.”

“A nuclear explosion?”

“Must’ve been the flash we saw leaving the city.”

Sam shook his head and ran ahead of the group, who uttered protests and gave chase after him. Sam came to a stop beneath an old traffic light. Withered, shrunken arms and bones littered the road. Sam scrunched his nose at their rotten stench.

“These must’ve been blown here by the blast,” said Piper, second to catch up after Castiel. “We fought these ferals on the way to Diamond City.”

Would Sam even recognize Dean’s body if it’d been charred to death? “Were there more ferals here? Any of these seem, uh, fresher than that to you?”

“I don’t know.” Piper raised her pistol at the neighborhood. “Sometimes there’re things that hide in here. Maybe we should—hold on.”

She lowered her pistol’s barrel and jogged up the street, away from the decrepit homes. Sam peered at her destination. Power armor? He ran toward her, and the group followed.

Piper surveyed the armor. “This is Danse’s alright. Has that stupid Brotherhood stamp all over it.”

“And a gun sticking out of its back?” Sam took a closer look at the husk-like armor. “It’s jammed into this wheel thing.”

“But where’s the fusion core?” said Nick.

“And where’s Danse?” added Sam.

“We’ll secure the area,” said Hancock, nodding to Cait.

Sam checked the ground. Muddy footprints and splatters—was that Dean’s tread?—crossed the road toward the fallen neighborhood. “I think this is them.” He pointed to the prints.

“The armor barely survived,” mused Nick. “The core is missing. A gun jammed in the wheel of the release mechanism. Hmm.”

“Think they ditched an overheating core?” asked Piper.

“And then made a run for it. By my calculations, we should find them, or some trace of them, soon. They couldn’t have run far before the core exploded.”

Sam’s heart pumped hard. “You think they’re dead?”

Castiel’s eyes widened.

“Not necessarily,” said Nick. “Danse would know the blast zone. They could’ve escaped in that amount of time. The question is whether they’re still here or not.”

“Nick!” That was Hancock. He cautiously made his way to the crew, Cait keeping look out. “We got mutants.”

“Alive?”

“Just their shit. And dog-shit too. Guessing that’s what they ran into—the baddies, not the shit.”

Sam followed the foot prints from a half-wall, where they stopped. He glanced around, hoping to pick them up again. _There!_ “This way.” He ran to a brick building beside a tiny diner. Most of the windows and one of its doors were boarded up, but the place had obviously been opened recently. The footprints were losing mud, but it was clear they were here or had been here. “Dean? Paladin Danse?” Sam ascended the dangerous stairs. “Dean?” His eyes fell on something clear-ish near the wall. He knelt over the empty hypodermic needle. “Guys, I’ve got a used stimpak here!”

“And paw prints,” said Nick. “No substantial blood, though. At least nothing to indicate death.”

Piper looked out into the neighborhood through what was once a window. “Hang on. A provisioner. I’ll be right back.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t get it. What are we looking at here?” Was Dean hurt? Was it Danse? Where were the bodies?

The group examined every inch of the space.

“Fresh bullet holes,” said Hancock.

“And fresh casings too,” said Cait. She kicked one toward Sam. “They’re probably alright, don’t worry.”

“Captured, maybe,” said Nick. “Doubt a super mutant and hound would flee without severe injuries. Unless the hound tracked them up here like we did, and found them gone.”

Sam checked on Piper. She patted a trader with an overloaded Brahmin on the shoulder, and handed her something, probably caps, then jogged back to their position.

“Okay,” she called from the first floor. The stairs echoed with her footfalls. “That’s the provisioner for the Oberland-Hangman’s connection. Been trying to talk to her for _weeks_.”

“Tell me you didn’t try to push more papers on her,” said Hancock.

“I’m a reporter, not a sleazeball, Hancock, jeez.” She leaned against the wall and lit up a cigarette. “And anyway, _Publick Occurrences_ is distributed to Hangman’s via Diamond City.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke. “She says the Oberland scouts have been monitoring this ‘monster trio’ who’ve been skulking around the route for a while. Even showed me the upgrade she got on her combat rifle, just in case.”

“That’s gotta be them!” said Sam. “We need to go.”

“Hold on, _hold on_ , Sam.” She flicked her cigarette. How could she stop and take a smoke break at a time like this? “There’s something different about them. One of the trio is a Mr. Handy. He even came into town trying to trade a few times.”

“So let’s go to this Oberland place and figure it out.”

“Piper’s right,” said Nick. “We need to be prepared to walk into a fight. If they’ve been casing the joint, they’re most likely planning an attack. There’s a chance this won’t be a pop-over interview.”

“Mr. Handy’s can get pretty nasty,” Hancock offered. “If this is the crew we’ve picked up, that means they’ve got ranged and melee fighters. Plus brute strength _and_ brains.”

“Who cares what they’ve got?” Cait said. “Let’s just go and bust their skulls open, bone or not.”

“Your idea pleases me,” Castiel said to Cait.

“Well, handsome, I’m full of _fun_ ideas. How about we grab a pint when this is over?”

“A pint of what?”

Sam shook his head at the erupting conversation and its cacophony of suggestions. “Piper, did the provisioner spot them herself? Did she mention anything about them having anyone in tow with them?”

“Nope.”

“But they would’ve crossed paths if she was coming from Oberland and they were heading that way, right?”

“Not necessarily. We can ask the scouts for more information. They’ve been tracking them. They know their route.”

“It’s a sound plan,” said Nick. “Another divergence from the original plan, funny how that works, but a sound plan.”

The crew gathered themselves and headed back for the riverside road. Hancock stopped at Danse’s power armor.

“Hang on.” He gripped the laser rifle, rocked it back and forth, then yanked it free. He eyed the team. “Don’t say _nothin_ ’.”

“Speaking of rifles.” Cait shrugged and took the opportunity to ransack Danse’s things. She snatched a small pouch, and gave it a shake. “Damn it, someone knifed it.” Finding nothing else of interest, she rejoined the team.

“Are we done looting?” Sam looked at the team. They just kept walking. _This is normal here. I’m the strange one for thinking it’s not._ He shook his head and followed.

Piper advised them to stay away from what was normally the safe riverbed as they walked. “Pretty sure we finished off the ferals here, but who knows what happened when they were blasted.”

“Wouldn’t they die?” said Sam. “We saw, uh, limbs and bones on the road back there from the blast.”

“Yeah, well sometimes a good dose of radiation is all they need to resurrect. If you’re a fan of having your ankle grabbed by something buried in the mud, be my guest. I’ll just…stay over here.”

“They look dead.”

“They sleep.”

Everyone but Sam instinctively veered toward a forest, away from the road. He made a face, felt a blush burn his cheeks, and hastened back to group. They followed a ridgeline into a valley, crusted mud still soft beneath their feet, and traversed the slight incline to Oberland. Unlike the other Minutemen settlements Sam had seen, Oberland lacked tall, imposing concrete walls. Fortifications nestled between massive tree trunks held turrets and guard posts, but the settlement was largely open. Its position on a hill made it secure from most directions, and it was only when the land rose higher did the fortifications increase in number.

It was small, cramped, and full of skinny buildings with two or three floors. A couple of mutfruit trees poked out from the flat roof of the nearest building.

Guards which had initially trained guns on them relaxed the nearer they drew. The settlers greeted them with knowing smiles and waves. Piper received a few congratulations on her latest edition of the paper, which she received gratefully.

A bartender at an outdoor stall doled out mutfruits and glasses of water. “On the house,” he said. Behind him were a few small tables and chairs, flanked by scaffolding. Oberland _was_ getting the Minutemen makeover after all. Sam chose a table as Piper and Nick took their leave to find the scouts. Hancock and Cait set down their food and moved another table closer.

Castiel eyed his meal with caution as he sat down.

“Do you need to eat here?” Sam asked.

“I did when I first arrived.” Castiel bit into it, swallowed, then offered it to Sam. “But I don’t seem to now.”

Sam flashed an uneasy grin. Voice quiet, he said, “People here don’t turn down food, Cas. Just fake it.”

Castiel gave the slow nod he gave when he processed information he found unusual. “Because we are gracious guests.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Castiel peered at his mutfruit with one eye and slowly took another bite.

“And be a little happier about it.”

Castiel smiled widely.

“Not that happy.”

Castiel adjusted.

“Good enough.”

Hancock finally sat. Cait tried to buy more salt, but the bartender had nothing in stock to share.

“You’re not gonna try and heal me again, are you?” said Hancock.

“No,” said Castiel upon swallowing his third small bite of the mutfruit he didn’t want. “Though I do not understand your condition.”

Hancock sighed. “I’m ugly but immortal. It’s something I’m hoping I won’t get bored with.”

“Who called you ugly, handsome?” Cait gently buffed her mutfruit on his coat after taking a seat.

“I did,” said Hancock. “And that’s alright by me, sister.”

Castiel tilted his head like a bird. “You’re siblings?”

Hancock gave Castiel a curious nod. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”

“Um.” Sam put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and leaned into him. “It’s kind of like how me and Dean call you our brother, but you’re not technically our brother.”

Castiel replied with a small nod. “Of course, just brothers.”

“I think it’s time for a smoke,” said Hancock, lifting himself from the chair. “Join me, Cait.”

Cait finished chewing her bite. “I’m not gonna wanna eat after—” Hancock nodded, and Cait took the cue. “I’ll take this along.”

“I’m sorry, Cas,” said Sam.

“What are you sorry for?”

“About Dean being Dean.”

“You refer to his frequent dalliances.”

“Is that what you want me to refer to?”

Cas shied away from him. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, right.” Sam sipped his water after giving it a healthy sniff. He let it sit on his tongue, just in case anything seemed off, before swallowing. He eyed the bartender—no, not Deacon in disguise. “I thought Dean might’ve…”

“Might have what?”

Sam shook his head. How should he frame this? “Look, when he has one of his… _dalliances_ , he has them where we’re staying most of the time. The places we go, there’s not really, uh, an outlet for that part of him, so I think maybe he—”

“Stop.” Castiel gazed straight into Sam. “I have seen Dean’s _soul_. I _know_ who he is. You don’t need to rationalize this for my sake, Sam. You’re doing it for yourself.” He rolled his partially eaten mutfruit along the table.

“I’m sorry, Cas. I just wanted to say I was sorry he hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt because I desired the victory of being his first ‘masculine’ encounter.” He picked up the mutfruit and examined it. “Gender is a human construct. It holds no real meaning to me.” He looked at Sam. “I’m hurt because the three of us are locked in a vicious circle, constantly doing the wrong thing in the name of helping each other.” He set down the mutfruit. “I heard of the Brotherhood in Goodneighbor. I’m sad Dean and I will never be together that way, but I’m truly sad that we won’t ever break this addiction to doing the wrong thing.” Now Castiel nervously tapped the table. “From what I’ve gathered, Danse is…not who I am.”

Sam looked at the trail of blues the mutfruit had left behind. Castiel was right; Sam was about to make this about _him_ , about Dean lying to _him_ and about Sam’s assumptions about Dean’s experience. “Castiel?”

“Sam?”

Sam placed a calming hand atop Castiel’s. “I’m sorry. For everything I said or was about to say.”

“I know,” said Castiel. “I’ve seen your soul too, Sam.”

Sam glanced aside, nodding. “Hey, maybe you could just _talk_ to him? About all this?”

“I’m not ready for that.”

“When you are, then.”

Castiel’s attention diverged from both Sam and their immediate surroundings. Nick and Piper headed their way, speaking to a soldier. Castiel turned back to Sam with a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Do you think angels are advanced synthetics? That perhaps this is actually our distant past?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Hancock and Cait stubbed out their cigarettes and joined the table. “Not to say i eavesdropped on purpose or anything,” said Hancock, pulling over chairs for the others, “but your world sounds like a piece of shit. No offense.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Castiel, glaring at Sam.

“At least it’s got you,” said Hancock. “Or will again once we get you home.”

The others arrived and took their seats.

The soldier introduced himself. “Captain Gilmore.” He reminded Sam of Bobby, if Bobby were suited up in full combat armor and carried a hefty futuristic rifle. Maybe he was a descendent of alternate-timeline Bobby Singer. He had his stocky build, his grayed beard, his peach complexion. He even had that hardened look in his eyes. Narrower nose, though. “I can confirm that we’ve picked up the trail of three potential hostiles, consisting of one super mutant, one small mutant hound, and a Mr. Handy.”

“Not a Lieutenant Gutsy?” Hancock said.

“Not outfitted the same way, though we can’t verify the programming.” He had a rough voice too, though rougher than Bobby’s. Sam pictured him with a cigar in his lips, and wondered if cigars still existed here since cigarettes had managed to survive. “As Ms. Wright learned from our provisioner, the robot has come into town several times attempting trade.”

“What did they wanna sell?” said Sam.

“Mostly meat. We rejected the offers, considering the company. We couldn’t confirm it wasn’t human.”

“This place looks pretty good, Captain,” said Nick. “I take it they haven’t attacked.”

“No. My lieutenant thinks they never will. We are near a safe zone.”

“Which is where?” asked Sam, not fully aware of what a “safe zone” meant in this irradiated world.

“Right next to where we came through,” said Piper. “The feral bodies you saw were kited there by someone else. Baddies tend to avoid the riverbed. That makes it a ‘safe zone.’ ”

“Has anyone seen them come through here recently? Maybe after that blast?”

“Yes,” said the captain. “And they had two people in tow.”

“Were they hurt?”

“Not badly.”

“Why didn’t you interfere?” said Castiel, a growl still stuck in his voice. Sam calmed him with a touch on the shoulder.

“Because I started to believe my lieutenant. Super mutants typically don’t run with robots, nor try to trade with humans. That’s why this area is also a safe zone for _them_. With Beantown cleared, the trio would be safe if they never attacked a settlement. Graygarden’s had the same experience with them. We’ve been trading intel with Graygarden for a few days now. Given the General’s law, we don’t engage with perceived threats until they make the first move. My lieutenant also reminded me that a super mutant is amongst your ranks.”

“But they were clearly prisoners?” said Sam

“Yes.”

“You didn’t recognize Paladin Danse?” said Nick.

“Neither person wore power armor.” The captain looked at everyone. “Don’t get me wrong. We aren’t fond of the Brotherhood here, but we adore the General, and she trusts him. Had we known one of our own was down there, we would’ve acted differently. But our current protocol called for neutrality. For all we knew, the humans had attacked the group, and the robot wanted to turn them in to local law enforcement.”

“So why not stop here?” said Nick.

“Because we’ve been unhelpful. Graygarden has ignored them as well. Could be they were headed to Starlight or STC.”

“Sounds like a stretch to me,” said Nick. “Were they actually headed north?”

“Yes. Graygarden’s probably spotted them.” Gilmore paused. “I’ll put out a notice on Paladin Danse and…?”

“Dean Winchester,” Sam said. “My brother.”

Gilmore nodded. “Come back to my office and let’s get some of those details down. I won’t keep you long. I know what it’s like to lose family.”

Hancock nodded. “Don’t we all.”

A worry in Sam’s mind told him he might know the feeling again very soon.

 


	18. .deception. | .dean.

.deception.

.dean. 

* * *

 

Dean stared at the worn mattress of the bunk bed, considering the potential colonies of radioactive bed bugs squirming beneath him and Danse. Squatting had prepared him for a lot of the unusual things in this world, but something about this had drawn the line in his mind, and it wasn’t just the part were his hands were bound behind his back.

“Do bed bug bites glow green here?”

“Not that I’m aware,” answered Danse.

Outside the shoddy cabin, the mutated bear their captors fought released its final roar.

“There goes that shot,” said Dean, but truthfully, he hadn’t been trying to look for a means of escape. He’d fucked up, again, made the wrong call, _again_ , and was without a weapon, _again_. Cas was who knows where, and Dean’d tried praying to him, hoping Angel Radio was somehow working here, but no Cas yet. Sam was due in Diamond City around now, so maybe he’d catch their trail. Dean needed a spark to go on, something to keep him moving forward. He’d find it—he always found it—but now it eluded him. Given everything at home, there wasn’t much to go back to. The people he cared about were here. The rest were doomed, and teleporting here had severed his connection to the Darkness. Part of him felt free from her allure.

The robot entered the semi-walled cabin through its door, smelling of wet metal and burning fuel. “Hello again. Please come out from beneath there and present your hands.”

“Why hasn’t your master killed us?” Danse said.

“Please come out from beneath there and present your hands.”

“What is your designation?”

“I am Alfred. Please—”

“Like Batman?” said Dean. “You guys have Batman?”

“I’m afraid I do not understand what you’re saying,” said Alfred. “Please, scoot forward from your positions, turn around, and present your hands.”

Danse looked at Dean and nodded. He inched to the edge of the bottom bunk until he could stand, and turned his back on Alfred. If things went wrong, Dean would tackle the robot. That might work, but that weird rocket might keep Dean from doing much more than pushing him aside. And then what? _Run for it_ , he thought. _Just grab Danse and run for it._

Alfred lifted Danse’s arms away from the small of his back with his claw tentacle, then started his buzz saw. Danse’s face tensed.

_It could be a good thing._ The saw lifted a little. “Wait,” said Dean. “What are you about to do?”

Danse exhaled.

“I am about to cut your bonds. I do ask that neither of you run. I have been asked to make you more comfortable during your stay with us, and to answer some of your questions. Now, I am going to proceed with cutting these bonds. I apologize; I am only equipped with weaponry, as I was modified from my original model by my previous masters. I have a high accuracy rating, but do hold still.”

Dean watched Danse, if only to comfort him. The buzz saw whirred to life, then snapped Danse’s bonds. Danse caught his breath again and helped Dean to his feet. Dean’s body crunched and ached. Danse hadn’t taken the same brunt of the force that Dean had when his power armor crash-landed; apparently that’s how the armor was designed. Every passing minute, the consequences of that fall revealed themselves further to Dean. Even lifting his arms up awkwardly to break the bonds hurt. He wondered how much good that stimpak had actually done, if he had multiple hairline fractures in addition to pained muscles. A fire still blazed in his hand. Danse knew this, and held Dean at his shoulders to support him.

_Snap!_ Dean released his held breath and stumbled once his bonds were severed. Danse caught him in a warm hold.

“He needs medical attention,” said Danse.

“Yes,” said Alfred. “I have been authorized to use one of our reserve stimpaks in an attempt to heal his wounds. They appear internal.”

“You have X-Ray vision?” said Dean.

“I was modified by my previous masters. My heat sensors are extraordinarily accurate. I detect inflammation in several parts of your body. Please, sit.”

They sat on the edge of the mattress, ducking to avoid smacking their heads on the rusted metal frame supporting the top bunk. Alfred’s clawed tentacle reached into one of the larger pouches attached to his body and pulled out a stimpak. “I’d like to sanitize the injection site. If you wouldn’t mind assisting, Brotherhood captive, sir.”

Danse helped Dean unbutton his plaid flannel, and pulled it carefully over Dean’s wounded hand. He rolled up the loose cap sleeve on Dean’s tee. Alfred immediately went to work, and soon the stimpak sent cool, relieving tingles throughout Dean’s body.

“Please open your mouth to receive water. I’m afraid I have no containers to fill.” Alfred lifted a nozzle—was that his flamethrower nozzle?—and Dean grit his teeth before complying. It tasted like water, not fuel, and he drank, embarrassed, feeling a little like a hamster, until water cascaded down his chin and Alfred stopped.

“Your turn, Brotherhood captive, sir.”

Dean wiped his chin and turned away, giving Danse the meager amount of privacy to be embarrassed. Outside, the puppy hound barked and yelped, and the super mutant shushed it.

“There,” said Alfred.

Danse dried his mouth with the edge of his sleeve. “You’re caring for us. Does your master intend on killing us?”

“No. According to Master Punch, the two of you ‘smell funny.’ Too funny to eat. However, I can assure you that Master Punch has not consumed human flesh since I have known him. I believe he was making an attempt at humor.”

Dean flexed his hand. The scars refused to untangle into a palm, but the fire had been put out. His nerves tingled, begging for more blood. Did he have nerve damage? “And why should we believe you?”

“Master Punch and I, and now the little one, require the assistance of humans to survive.”

“Why did you want to attack Oberland?” said Danse.

Alfred’s tentacles, crusted brown near certain joints, spun beneath his head. “We wanted to trade with Oberland Station, but thus far have been unsuccessful. Master Punch decided not to trade with them after all, now that we have you two. We needed to be sure you’d want to work with us first, and we worried the people of Oberland Station would end us if they saw we had captured you.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well capturing us after shooting at us was a pretty bad idea.”

“You shot first,” Alfred reminded them. “I’m afraid our parental instincts kicked in.”

“Well, given we’re not gonna try and kill you, and that you’re not gonna try and kill us, maybe you could let us go?” said Dean.

“Afraid not,” said Alfred. “We are desperately low on supplies. It took much convincing to get Master Punch to relinquish a stimpak and water to you. I had hoped risking these supplies would make you favorable toward trading for us.”

“So if we make this trade for you, you’ll let us go?” Dean said.

“We should not negotiate with them,” Danse whispered to him.

Alfred spun. “Yes, given we get the supplies we need.”

“We’ll do it.”

“Dean,” warned Danse. “This won’t end well.”

Dean pretended to ignore him. “See, I know this place that accepts robots _and_ super mutants. Let us head in there for you and make the trade. Maybe you won’t have to worry again.”

“I’m afraid I have to ask, plaid captive, sir—”

“Dean.”

“Dean, sir. Are you lying to us in order to secure your own escape? Your vitals reflect this.”

“I’m nervous, yeah, because I’m hoping _you’re_ not lying to _us_. But this place exists. Sanctuary Hills.”

Alfred bounced. “Sanctuary Hills is difficult to get to. There are few safe zones. Starlight will fire upon us, and several hostiles exist in Lexington. Concord is overrun by raiders.”

“Not anymore,” said Danse. “Dean and I were recently through there. If we keep west of Lexington and Starlight, we will remain safe.”

“Is there a Brotherhood presence at this Sanctuary, Brotherhood captive, sir?”

“Just myself. I am a special liaison. The settlement is run by the Minutemen.”

“I see. My previous masters knew of these Minutemen. I recall hearing of this super mutant ally. Allow me to convene with Master Punch. Are you men of your words?”

“We won’t take off,” said Dean.

“Yes,” said Danse. “We will remain here.”

“Delightful! I shall return.”

Alfred spun his head this time and floated through the door. Dean and Danse sighed.

“There is a factory nearby where we can acquire weapons,” said Danse. “With the hostiles distracted, we could run for it.”

“No way,” said Dean.

“Dean, do not begin to feel something for our captors.”

“I’m not. I’m saying that it might be worth it to have some powerful escorts to Sanctuary. That’s where we’re all supposed to head back to anyway, right?”

“We are supposed to head to Starlight.”

“But then we’d all hightail to Sanctuary anyway. Who knows, maybe they’re not so bad after all, and they’ll get a shot at redemption there. If not, well, that’s what the turrets are for.”

“As much as I care for and respect Knight Nora, she is misguided. Sanctuary does not need to take in more abominations.”

“Look, I don’t wanna get involved in Commonwealth politics, okay? I just want to get my brother and my friend and go home.”

Danse stared forward. “Yes. Of course.”

“You okay?”

Danse blinked. “I have another headache. I’m also worried for my team. They should have answered that flare, Dean.”

“Maybe they didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe they had orders not to. Either way, I have failed them. If they were lax in their duties, that is on me. If they were ordered not to answer, I have failed the Brotherhood by not being present to receive that order. I have failed you through my faith in the Brotherhood. Can you use your hand?”

“I can flex it and I can sort of use my fingers.”

“Because of my failure, you may have to relearn how to write and fire a gun. And any other daily activities.”

“It’s fine, Danse. I’ve been through worse.”

“I fear I disobeyed other orders, those to both protect you and see Garvey’s mission through. I disobeyed them because of my personal feelings.”

“Because of your belief in your organization. Look, Danse—”

“My feelings for you, Dean.” Danse glanced aside. “This is why the Brotherhood does not encourage fraternization. It bends our loyalties, our conviction. I don’t think I have to tell you how dedicated I am to the Brotherhood and Elder Maxson. I strive to embody the Brotherhood. But I exploited that in myself to convince myself that saving you using the Brotherhood was somehow altruistic. I fooled myself, and you.”

Dean put his good hand over Danse’s. “You didn’t lie to me. Honestly, I think…”

Danse gazed at him, squeezing his hand. They leaned on each other. “Even now, I feel the tug to abandon protocol.”

“I’m not gonna ask you to do that.”

“I wish you would.”

Dean smiled. “Maybe when we’re back in Sanctuary.”

Danse laughed softly and wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist.

“Is Danse your first name?”

Danse gently shook his head, his fingers playing along Dean’s ribs. “No, but it’s the name I prefer.”

“What’s your full name?”

“I’d rather not say, not yet.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a sore topic.”

“Don’t apologize. I just never felt it belonged to me. Danse is the name the Brotherhood latched onto, and I latched onto them. It feel at home when I hear it.”

Dean laughed softly through his nose and nestled closer. “It suits you.”

They stared at the opposite wall, waiting for Alfred to return. Instead, the puppy hound padded in, its nose wiggling in their direction. It parked itself at a weed growing at their feet.

“Humans.” Punch entered, carrying a slab of red, dripping meat. “Have meat. Not human meat. Bear meat. Fresh.” He plopped it on the splintered floor. The puppy hound stretched its neck to reach it, and when that didn’t suffice, dragged itself over to nibble on it.

“No! Not for little one.” Punch scooped up the hound in his arms like a baby. The slab of meat was still clenched in its teeth. “Punch get you better meat. Little one claimed this. Be faster next time.”

“Maybe Alfred could cook it a little?” Dean suggested.

“Yes, robot cook. Punch forget humans hate flavor.”

The puppy hound dropped the meat, seemed alarmed for a second, then covered Punch’s shoulder and face in puppy licks.

“No, little one.” Punch bent over and picked up the meat, then held it like a bottle to the puppy hound’s mouth. “Do not lose meat. Others will take. You claim, you eat.”

Dean laughed to himself once Punch and puppy exited, and caught the ghost of a grin on Danse’s face.

“Alright, we can go with your plan,” said Danse. “But do not get too attached. Their fate lies in the hands of Sanctuary.”

Dean nodded and yawned. “Think I might try and fit in a power nap if we’re gonna do more walking. Maybe you should give it a try too.”

“I’ll be fine.” Danse pulled him into his shoulder. “Allow me to save you from glowing green bed bugs.”

Dean laughed again and closed his eyes.

 


	19. .best laid plains. | .piper.

.best laid plans.

.piper.

* * *

Piper sighed and pushed the caps across the counter. It was hard, watching those caps go, but Ginny’s distribution pay was due soon anyway. This particular job was important, but so was delivering the paper, and given the unknown factors in this whole mess, there might not be another shot for Piper to pay her. It was hard work, what Ginny did. Risking her life to deliver supplies and papers, making sure to count the right amount for folks here at Graygarden, as well as the stop after. Dealing with questions that inevitably came in from those mistaking messenger as source. Let Ginny get an early paycheck; the only thing it hurt was Piper’s wallet, but it wouldn’t leave the same scar that Castiel’s fines had left behind.

“Thanks, Piper,” said Ginny. “Any luck getting a lead on your guys?”

“Nick’s got something,” Piper said. “Greene was easy. It was White I had trouble with.”

“Oh yeah, she has a thing for old Nick Valentine, for sure.” Ginny gestured at Sam Winchester. “You sure do run with some nice looking fellas.”

“Tell me about it,” said Piper. “I mean, don’t tell me about it.”

Ginny swept the last of her caps into a pouch. “Oh my, Blue Eyes is coming back!”

Piper grinned and sipped her Nuka-Cola.

Castiel arrived, Sam in tow. He and Sam took the seats on either side of Piper.

“Hello again, Ginny,” said Castiel.

Ginny spun her arms. “Hello again, Castiel. Could I buy you a drink?” She raised her buzz-saw arm to the bartender. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sam, would you like one too?”

Sam politely refused.

Castiel scrunched his brows. “Oh, I don’t believe consuming alcohol is wise right—” The bartender served Castiel an ice cold brew. “Thank you.” He turned. “And thank you, Ginny.”

Piper was pretty sure that if Ginny could blush, then she’d be blushing. Piper spun on the barstool to give them privacy. “Sam Winchester.”

“Piper.”

“Nuka-Cola?”

“Water.”

“ ‘Otherworldly visitor prefers water to fun.’ Hmm, doesn’t have a good ring to it.”

“ ‘Reporter loses Brotherhood paladin and visitor’s brother.’ That sounds pretty good.”

“Oh ho, someone’s got some _sass_ , huh? Look, it’s not as if I let them just _go_ to the Dugout and sat at home twiddling my thumbs. Nick and I canvassed the city _and_ the guards around it. Twice.” She brought the glass bottle to her lips, but hesitated. “Your headline’s terrible, by the way. It sounds like I only lost one person, some kind of Brotherhood tourist.”

Sam sighed, as if giving up. He ordered a drink, a Gwinnett Lager, and counted out caps like a kid learning about currency at school. After being sure of the total, he nodded to the pile he’d counted and pushed them off the edge into his palm, nearly losing a few in the process. He handed them off to the Mr. Handy server, who didn’t have hands big enough to collect the caps. Instead, the robot opened a pouch wide, and Sam took the suggestion and dropped them in. Piper held in her laugh as long as possible, and it escaped when the server took his exit.

“ _Oh my god_ you’re a rookie.” She laughed again. “After all this talk about who you and your brother are, what you do, you’d think you could figure out how to _blend in_ a little.”

He pursed his face. “I just don’t understand this system,” he said quietly, his voice nearly lost under the influx of human customers. “What backs the cap? Why can’t certain caps be worth more? Say, an orange cap be worth five caps? What happens when you need to make a big purchase? Do you just carry a box of caps around with you?”

She was chortling now. “Oh, Sam Winchester, you tall beautiful thing. I sure do hope we can get you home.”

“Me too.”

“So, you wanna tell me what happened on the road?”

Sam seemed distracted. Piper turned around to see Castiel holding Ginny’s nozzled arm as if it were the delicate hand of a noble lady. He seemed more intrigued by its function, but she seemed ready to faint, well, if robots could faint.

Piper laughed again. Sam let out one laugh, but held his smile.

“What does he see in your brother?”

“Who?” Sam’s smiled snapped. “Wait, Cas?”

“You apologized to him when I told him…” She shrugged her brows and pointed with her eyes. “You know.”

“Yeah, that’s, uh…” He cleared his throat. “None of your business, really.”

“Sounds to me like whatever’s going on is pretty intense if Dean just decided to throw away a sound plan.”

“Okay, I really don’t feel like talking about my brother to everyone. I’d rather just find him.”

“Ah, right, because you have your own story too. So what is it, Sam? What were you and Dean working on before you got here?”

“Just another case.”

“Just another case? Nothing out of the ordinary? Portal opening, maybe?”

“Not in the slightest. That’s why it’s so strange.”

“What are your thoughts on the portal?”

He did that single laugh again. “Are you interviewing me again, Piper?”

“I wouldn’t assume anything’s off the record…”

“Right.”

“Though I _wouldn’t mind_ knowing what happened on the road. What did Deacon do?”

Whatever kindness Sam had mustered up to deal with her left his eyes. He stood, beer in hand, and patted Castiel. Ginny levitated in a hunch after that.

“Well,” said Ginny. “It was nice while it lasted. Hope you find your boys, Piper. Can’t wait for the next edition. I’ll be sure to get that other job done.” She sulked and hurried off.

Piper sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time this week, and brought her drink to her lips, only to sigh again upon finding it empty.

“Pipes,” said Hancock. “Smoke break?”

She contemplated the drop of sugary goodness that ran down the inner wall of the Nuke-Cola bottle. _Plop._ “Yeah, smoke break.”

They exited the bar to a small alleyway near the highway elevator to security. Cigarettes lit, they leaned against the highway’s concrete support and watched the storm from the safety of their asphalt and steel umbrella.

“If you wanna know who fucked this up, it was Deacon from the start.” Hancock always exhaled in a long stream straight ahead of him. “Not just what happened in my neck of the woods, but before then. He wanted those brothers split up, and I kinda hated Dean from the get-go, so I fed the idea to Garvey.”

“Did Deacon try to kill Sam?”

“Could’ve. He drugged him and questioned him using the memory loungers to make sure he wasn’t a synth.”

“A synth spy.”

“Right.”

“You told me nothing would happen, Hancock.”

“Yeah, I did, and I wasn’t lyin’ when I said it. Deacon took it too far, didn’t ask Sam nothin’, and the guy woke up handcuffed in the Rexford.”

“Oh my _god_ , Hancock!” Piper growled. “And Sam just kept working with him, given that?”

“Well if Deacon weren’t such a crafty motherfucker, you would’ve seen the shiners Sam gave him.”

“Serves him right. I mean, he’s sort of our smoking buddy, but let’s face it, none of us really _like_ each other.”

Hancock shrugged. “Nah, you’re alright, Piper.”

She crossed her arms and flicked away some ashes. “Yeah, you’re alright too.”

Thunder rumbled the support. They shared a look and just listened to it fade.

“Sometimes the rain is nice,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Hancock. “Kinda peaceful.” After a silence, filled by long drags, he said, “There’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Sam’s world, it ain’t bullshit. Deacon’s not convinced, even though he saw right into the guy’s head first hand, but I am. We ran into one of those supernatural things he and his brother claim to fight. Like his world seeped into ours.”

She arched a brow. “What kind of thing?”

“A possessed deathclaw.”

“No _shit_.”

“That’s not what I’m sayin’, Pipes. I’m sayin’ that if their world is leaking into ours, then there’s gotta be a crack that it’s leakin’ through.”

Piper rested her smoking hand. “He say anything about how he knew it was possessed?”

“Said it had the signs.” Hancock shrugged. “I asked him what kinda shit we should be keepin’ an eye out for. He said ‘ectoplasm.’ Well what the fuck is ectoplasm, anyway?”

“Sounds gooey.” A piece of hair clung to Piper’s lips. She pulled it aside and took another drag. “So the portal’s probably still open somewhere. Wonder why they didn’t find it.”

“No clue. Maybe they don’t know what to look for.”

She mused on that. “Sam said he doesn’t think the source of the breach is his world. Given the things he does over there, I’m inclined to believe him.”

“Same. Too bad his brother’s shit.”

“The angel’s kind of adorable.”

“Wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with that one.”

She glared at him. “Because it’d piss off Dean?”

“No way, Pipes. Ain’t my style. Would be shit to use someone like that, angel or not. Anyway, maybe something on our side caused this breach? Institute bullshit?”

“Maybe. Which means they would already know about it, because hell, _they opened it_ , and so we’d be back to square one with them, just trying to _shut them down_ for good instead of trying to prevent them from knowing about it.” She stared into the distance, focused on a new thought in her mind.

“Maybe.” Hancock ashed his smoke. “But…hey, you okay there, Pipes?”

She blinked. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“Shit, at this point, I just need her back.”

_Blue._ Piper took a final drag. “Yeah.”

“If she even wants to come back.”

“She has to.” She stubbed her cigarette. “Look, hate to smoke and run, but I’ve gotta catch up to Ginny.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Piper ditched the butt in an ashtray. A hunch had taken hold and wouldn’t let go. “There’s something important I gotta tell someone. See ya, Hancock.

“See ya, Pipes.”

 


	20. .devils. | .dean.

.devils.

.dean. 

* * *

 

Dean wiped his brow of rain. “Does it ever snow around here?”

“Why would it snow in the Commonwealth?” said Danse.

“Because it snows in winter in Boston?” Dean tilted his head. “Hey, it is winter, right?”

“Dean, sir,” said Alfred. Water cascaded over his orbed body, rivuleting down each arm. “Your knowledge of pre-war Boston is astounding. It has not snowed here since the war.”

“So no white Christmas. Great.”

They trudged up the hill. Behind them, a dammed lake rippled with raindrops. Punch and Alfred moved without issue. The puppy hound couldn’t gain traction, and whimpered. Punch scooped him up and carried him. Danse and Dean slipped occasionally, but the moments were nothing they couldn’t recover from.

“It would be far colder were it to snow, Dean, sir.”

“The robot’s right, Dean,” said Danse. “We are ill-equipped for such temperatures.”

“I know,” said Dean, “but walking through the rain can be just as bad.”

“Yes, also true. It’s risky for many reasons.”

“Not as bad as the other night, at least.”

“Humans talk too much.” Punch put his chin atop the puppy hound’s head like an umbrella.

“It’s getting dark,” Dean said. “We’ll lose our bearing.”

“My internal compass will keep us going,” said Alfred.

“Robot,” said Danse. “Dean’s wounds won’t heal properly if we continue on. Stress fractures will only slow us down.”

“Camp slow us down,” said Punch. “Rain wash funny stink off you.”

Alfred hovered and spun his arms, flinging more rain on Dean and Danse. He eyed them for a moment, then the rest of his body turned, and he approached Punch. “Master Punch, the humans’ internal temperatures _have_ dropped almost half a degree.”

“Cold rain.”

“Yes, from the rain. But the human body is fragile and cannot maintain homeostasis in such conditions for very long.”

“They get weak?”

“Yes, they get weak.”

“No stimpak.”

“Yes. Our best course of action is to seek shelter and build a fire.”

“We are close to a Minutemen settlement,” Danse whispered to Dean. “It’s close enough to Sanctuary that Knight Nora has entertained joining the two. Were the night clearer, you could see it from here.”

“You wanna run for it?” asked Dean.

“I’m telling you it’s an option.”

“Warehouse.” Punch trudged along and was the first to make it to the top. “Stay there.”

The puppy hound howled.

“Shh, little one.” Punch smoothed the water off the puppy hound’s back. “Smell ghouls.”

“I show no signs of hostiles, Master Punch.”

“Did not say alive.”

Danse and Dean arrived last. Danse held Dean’s hand as he took his final step, and the two rested against a massive, slick boulder overlooking the lake and the small road beside it.

“You go in warehouse, stupid humans. No rock.”

Dean shivered and sighed, his body aching, and he lifted himself from the boulder with Danse’s help. His hand had not healed yet, and even touching the cold, smooth rock had irritated the nerves that could still feel.

Two buildings stood in a shipping yard, enclosed by a holey fence. The building nearest them had one floor, but it also had a roof. Arm linked with Danse, Dean headed for the nearest hole in the fence, until Punch grunted.

“Stop,” said Punch, using his best, gravelly whisper.

The puppy hound’s head lifted, rigid. Its nose wiggled. Punch held up a large hand and followed the puppy hound’s nose. Alfred stilled. Dean and Danse scanned the growing dark, creeping up the shield-like boulder for a better view.

A machine powered up on the far edge of the water, like a spaceship readying for take off. Danse gripped Dean’s arm hard enough to bruise and pushed him down into cover. “Assaultron!”

Punch set down the puppy hound and reached for his gun, firing at an intense red glow in the distance. The red grew nearer, stronger, and Punch kept firing despite Alfred’s protests. The assaultron came into full view. Terrifyingly fast, the assassin-black, humanoid machine homed on Punch, claw-hands spinning and ready to drill. Alfred fired his laser at the death-dealing robot.

“Get little one, robot!”

“Master Punch—”

“Stupid robot! Save little one.”

Alfred reversed direction, still firing, until he came upon the mutant hound puppy and swatted him toward Dean and Danse’s direction. Dean welcomed the pup in.

“We need weapons,” said Dean.

“I’m afraid I cannot help you,” said Alfred.

An explosive red flash silenced them. Dean exhaled his relief once he heard Punch’s shots ring out again. Alfred ducked in and out of cover, firing his laser at the assaultron, which recharged that red glow.

“Please take the little one with you, sirs.” Alfred fired again. “I’m afraid my previous masters have found me.”

“This is about you?” said Dean. He pressed himself further into the cold rock, rain pounding his face.

“That is a modified assaultron model. I could not detect its signature because it does not generate enough heat to detect unless it is in combat or within close range.” Alfred fired again. The assaultron let its energy charge loose again. “Master Punch!”

Danse peered around the corner. “Is he—” He relaxed at the sound of Punch’s gun. The assaultron charged its weapon, and then charged…again? Danse looked around the corner once more, between Alfred’s arms. “Dean.”

Dean joined him, struggling to hold the squirming, massive puppy. His injured hand proved to be a most troublesome clamp. “What?”

“Look.”

Punch marched down the hill, stalwart in his defense. In the distance, another red glow appeared. And another beginning. And something…bigger.

“Take the little one,” pleaded Alfred.

“Is that a _tank_?” uttered Dean.

Danse squinted. “It’s a sentry bot.”

Dean squeezed the puppy, his bones and muscles aching, telling him to let go. The sentry bot approached Punch, who avoided it along with two shots from the assaultrons, but Punch was losing traction in the rain. The sentry bot drew nearer. Bones wrapped in wire covered its metallic shell, glowing in the alarming red of its light. Steam rose from its back and curled around the skull affixed to its head.

“What sick bastards strap bones to a robot?” said Dean.

Danse shot him a stern look. “Rust Devils.”

Punch roared, riling up the puppy hound. “No!” Dean cried out, but as he tensed, his back slipped on the boulder, and the puppy hound escaped.

“Little one!” Alfred chased after it, and Dean got to his feet to follow.

Danse gripped him tight and launched him back into cover. “No!”

Dean pulled himself from the mud. An assaultron released its charged beam. The sentry bot crawled forward.

The puppy hound yelped.

“Rage!” shouted Punch.

“Into the warehouse!” hissed Danse.

They darted for the nearest building, but upon breeching the shipping yard, they silently realized it had no tactical or defensive advantages. Their eyes scanned the yard. Making a run for the two-floor warehouse would expose them.

“There!” Dean spotted a fallen tree trunk that crawled up to the roof, and grabbed Danse. They ascended the trunk, half-climbing, half-running, their tread slipping on peeling bark. They slid down the roof, tumbling onto a path of steel shipping crates. Dean hit the crate hard on his shoulder, putting bruises on top of bruises, but Danse lifted him again. They leapt to the next rooftop, where they accessed the second floor through a hole in the wall. They were met with rusted shelves, wooden crates, and a flesh-free skeleton.

Danse pried open a crate. “Nothing useful!” he whispered.

Dean scoured every hidden crevice for anything, but below, a door flew open with a harsh _clank_ , and it was clear an enemy now used the space for cover.

“Here!” Dean mouthed. They returned to the rooftop and flattened themselves in the dark. From here, the battle unfolded. People covered in the shells of robots encircled Punch and Alfred. The puppy hound was…Dean winced. The puppy was not there.

“Abernathy is just beyond that point,” whispered Danse.

“We just need to wait this out,” said Dean.

“Exactly.”

Dean watched in horror, his heart thudding hard against the roof, as Punch and Alfred fought for their lives. An assaultron recharged as the sentry bot shut down momentarily to expel excess heat. _If only we could shoot that fucker in the back_ , thought Dean, thinking of Danse’s fusion core. Rain turned the sentry bot’s deep tread-marks into little puddles, each indentation a tiny star aglow with the light of the overheated fusion cores.

The assaultron let its devastating laser loose on Punch. Fire consumed him; it was as if he were a ghost whose bones had just been salted and burned. His ashes swept through the battle, but the Rust Devils were unfazed, and stomped the blowing ashes into the mud. They homed in on Alfred, commanding their robots to yield, and with a few shots, Alfred fizzled with a blue spark, and fell to the ground.

Dean shivered, his cold hand interlocked with Danse’s. Dean took deep breaths, fighting gravity and fear, hoping he didn’t give them up now that the Rust Devils thought the battle was over.

“Crates and shit in here, Tarno,” called out a Rust Devil from below.

A Rust Devil of medium build glanced at the warehouse. “So fuckin’ look through ’em.” Tarno kicked Alfred’s malfunctioning globe. “Move this fuckin’ traitor inside,” he said to those who flanked him.

Dean and Danse looked to each other, raising brows and gently tapping fingers to signal their next move. The Rust Devils carried Alfred inside after Tarno, and the remainder took command of the robots, who followed them out of sight. Dean and Danse’d be relatively safe from the sentry bot inside, but the assaultrons would murder them. Even if the Rust Devils were just waiting out the rain and moving on, that still left Dean and Danse out in the cold.

_Cas, please God, Cas, I hope you can hear this. We’re at a warehouse near this place called Abernathy. We’re cornered. Pretty sure we’re gonna die here. Just…wherever you are, come quick._

Dean pushed up slowly from his place, injured palm scraping against the coarse rooftop, and he crawled to the window. Danse flattened himself into a military crawl and did the same. A Rust Devil ascended the stairs and picked through the crate Danse had opened.

_And God, you’d better not let those robots get me and Danse, or so help me, I’ll haunt you myself._

The Rust Devil turned. Dean and Danse ducked and peered through rusted holes in the wall.

“Nothing but dust so far, Tarno,” the Rust Devil shouted down the stairs.

“Do I look like I give a fuck about dust? Talk to me when it’s important,” Tarno called from below.

The Rust Devil sighed and meandered toward the window.

Before Dean could stand, Danse snatched the Rust Devil at the mouth and waist, then pulled him through the large hole. Danse lay him down on the roof, his hands stained as red as the knife he’d stolen from the raider. Blood ran down the roof.

“Holy shit,” Dean mouthed. He hadn’t figured Danse to have any stealth skills, given his proclivity for power armor.

Danse ignored the praise, focusing on his task. He gave Dean the nod it was clear, and knelt over his victim. He handed a pistol to Dean and took the remaining laser rifle. Dean flexed his injured hand. Good enough. He checked the pistol’s clip before holding it. His palm burned, but he could use it. Another signal from Danse: platform clear. They entered the warehouse and stared down the rusted steps.

Through a doorway below, the Rust Devils beat and banged on Alfred, whose malfunctioning limbs kept threatening to hurt them.

“I wanna wear that fucker as a codpiece,” barked Tarno on his way out of the warehouse.

“Gee,” said one of the Rust Devils once Tarno was out of ear shot. Danse signaled to Dean to wait. Dean didn’t see an opening anyway. “You’d think he’d be over it by now.”

“We talkin’ about the same guy, here?” replied the other.

Danse raised his weapon. Dean aimed at the other target.

The Rust Devils shelled Alfred like a walnut.

Dean and Danse fired. Danse’s target went down.

Dean’s fired back.

Danse fired again.

Dean couldn’t pull the trigger.

His hand…his fingers… _burned_. They just…wouldn’t…work.

He swapped hands and aimed, hoping the off-hand training he hadn’t quite kept up with would come back to him.

The Rust Devil shot. Below, an assaultron charged, and sped to their location. It tackled Dean, and thrust a spinning claw into his face. Danse pulled on the assaultron’s arm, but it was for naught. He bashed it. The assaultron became blindingly red-hot, and Dean smelled burning hair.

Danse picked up the assaultron and threw it out the window, where it discharged its laser into the sky as it flew off the roof.

“How the hell—?”

Danse lifted Dean to his feet, just in time for them to meet the end of the Rust Devil’s guns.

“There you go, raise those hands, nice and easy,” said Tarno. God, he was an ugly son of gun up close. Weathered peach skin, scarred and sunburnt, short dark hair. Maybe he was handsome to _someone_ once. “There, good boys. You two oughta be thankful, us saving you from that super mutant and that filthy traitor, but _no_ , you go and kill my guy and fling my favorite assaultron out the window.”

“Uh, Tarno.” The other Rust Devil pointed with his weapon at the corpse on the roof.

“Oh, you’re in for it now!” Tarno clenched his teeth and shielded himself behind the sights of his gun. “Gimme one good reason I shouldn’t shoot you fuckers right here!”

“Because the Brotherhood of Steel will rain fire down upon you,” said Danse.

“Oh yeah? That’s what you assholes wear under all that armor, huh?” Tarno shot Danse in the thight. “Don’t look so bulletproof now.”

“Danse!” Dean reached for the stooped Danse, but Tarno _tsk-tsked_ and swayed him to raise his hands again.

“But _you_ don’t read Brotherhood,” said Tarno. “So who’re you, huh?”

“The last face you’ll ever see,” said Dean.

Tarno laughed. “That’s hilarious. How many times’ve you used that line before, huh?” He stomped his foot. “Hey, idiots! Get your asses over here! You hear gunfire and you don’t come runnin’? What’s the matter with you?”

The remaining three Rust Devils muttered apologies and strode to surround the bottom of the staircase with aimed guns.

“He’s pretty important,” Dean said. “My friend here. The Brotherhood wouldn’t let one of their own die.”

“He’s a soldier. One dies, the rest move on.”

“But he ain’t dead yet,” said Dean. “And he’s an officer. Look at that uniform.” _Please be a special uniform._ “Honestly, he’s worth more to you alive.”

Tarno relaxed a little. “Is he now?”

“He’s not lying. I am Paladin Danse. I have the honor of being quartered beside Elder Maxson himself. The Brotherhood may be willing to trade in exchange for our safe return. Rust Devils have never interfered with our operations before. Don’t give them a reason to look deeper into you.”

“Hmph.” Tarno lowered his gun; his gang kept theirs raised. “And you, commoner? What’re you worth?”

“I’m one of the Companions.”

“The what?”

“The Companions? The small council for the General of the Minutemen?”

Tarno cackled, then raised his gun again. “I oughta shoot you right here.”

_Fuck._ “I know you’ve tussled with the General before,” Dean guessed, “and that means you know she’s not gonna bother with negotiations. You fuck up this deal she has me working on with the Brotherhood, you’re gonna get wiped off the map.” He glanced at Danse, who held his wound. Blood soaked through his uniform and ran between his fingers.

Tarno growled, then tensed. Dean prepared for the bullet, but Tarno shook off his anger. “Tie ’em up and patch ’em up. Get the bots to haul ’em back. I gotta fuckin’ _think_.” He pushed through his gang at the bottom of the stairs, snatching a piece of Alfred on the way, and stormed out of view. The gang filed upstairs and did their work.

Dean got to his knees and put his hands behind his back. “You okay?” he said to Danse.

“I’ll be fine,” said Danse as a stimpak was plunged into his back. He cried out, then his eyes washed over with relief. One of the raiders took a very unclean knife and pried out the bullet.

“What the fuck is wrong with your hand?” asked the guy tightening Dean’s bonds.

“It got burned.”

“Serves you right.”

The Rust Devils shoved them down the stairs toward the entrance, then strapped them to the front of the sentry bot. Bones dug into Dean’s back, but at least he could get a little footing for support on the armored side skirt The raiders were out of earshot, and so long as Dean and Danse didn’t say anything stupid, they could probably talk about a few things incognito.

“Danse, I need you to do something for me.”

Pale and pained, Danse replied, “What’s that?”

“I need you to pray with me.”

“I don’t pray.”

“Please, just pray with me.”

He sighed. “I will, but why?”

“Because we could really use a guardian angel right now.”

 


	21. .etc. marks the spot. | .deacon.

.etc. marks the spot.

.deacon. 

* * *

 

Deacon’s rocky perch gave him a sweeping view of Wicked Shipping’s storage yard. Fuzzy lights from Abernathy farm glowed in the distance now that the rain pounded with less fervor. The modified sentry bot rolled away, Danse and Winchester the Elder in its clutches. Deacon had almost fired upon its fusion core, judging Danse and Dean to be a safe distance away from the blast, considering there was an entire building and steel shipping containers between them. He hadn’t taken the shot, because a damn gust had grabbed hold of his rifle, and next he knew, Danse and Dean were inside the warehouse, and the bot was way too close to it to fire.

Yada yada yada, now the two Ds—wait, was Deacon the third D? no can do—okay, the two…lovebirds? runaways?—were strapped to said modified sentry bot and heading out of the Commonwealth.

Deacon lifted himself from his perch and picked up his rifle. Time to continue shadowing them. West, to the outer reaches of the Commonwealth, through rough terrain he was surprised a massive sentry bot could traverse. Root and mud terraces, scattered between spiky trees and boulders, led him up the foothills toward his, and their, destination. He made good time, even in the night, not just because he was familiar with this band of Rust Devils, but because, ultimately, he was alone.

This was the freedom he missed. He could make his own calls, not worry about the ego of a partner thinking their shot or their call was the call to make. He could cloak his footfalls, but he couldn’t control a team. A partner. He could hold a sneeze, a cough, a thought, an itch. Charmer was the only one worth rolling with. She needed a little guidance, at first, but now she surpassed him in skill. Probably because the one she cared about was still alive. She still had something to lose, something to hold onto. Deacon didn’t have those attachments. Or hadn’t.

Charmer was a great friend. The only thing she could do to lose his trust would be to side with Maxson or worse, the Institute. She wasn’t going to do either of those things. Deacon didn’t need trust to know that; it was objective fact, and that just made him trust her even more. Deacon knew most statistics were lies, but he could safely say that he didn’t lie to her about 80% of the time now.

So yeah, he liked working with her. She was smart, playing the powerful to help rebuild the Commonwealth, and it was working, alright. Without her, the Commonwealth was doomed. The Railroad would have to start over, and the chances of finding some other relative of Shaun or Father or whomever the hell he was, were zero.

If you didn’t think about what Charmer said about the synths, about their source DNA.

Deacon kept the moving pinprick group in sight. So long as he could spot the red lights on the bots, he wouldn’t lose them in the dark. He wished he had a computerized tracking scope on his gun like Tinker Tom had suggested. Not that it mattered, but he didn’t want to get ahead of the enemy or risk crossing their path.

Barbara had been a synth, but was she replaced? Or was she a relative of Shaun’s? A clone of his? Charmer had described the printers in the Institute in depth. Deacon had been nauseated afterward, worse than he was when the Switchboard had been attacked. Worse than he’d been when he had to return to it. It took _minutes_ to print a synth. So were captives forced to give their DNA sample and watch as Institute machines assembled and printed their replacements? Was Shaun’s DNA used for coursers, for those not on assignment in the Commonwealth? Was he just a donor of a small string, one that had no bearing on family trees, and was as innocuous as the DNA shared by every human?

He’d made the mistake of talking to Charmer about this during a journey to the Mercer Safehouse. Saying he worried about how close she and Curie were getting. Oh boy, he’d gotten an earful on that. As if Charmer hadn’t already considered the strange possibility that someone with her son’s DNA had feelings for her.

“There’s something else in the data Tinker Tom got,” he’d said.

Charmer had said nothing to that, only dared him to speak it. She was a lot like Tommy Whispers in that way. If only she’d taken his name. Well, Deacon being Deacon, he’d chosen to take her dare.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. Des would kill me.”

“So don’t tell me.”

“Fine. All I’m saying is next time you’re there, maybe find out where the replacements’ DNA comes from. And maybe find out how—”

“ _Deacon_ , I _know_ what I need to find—”

“You look like her.”

Charmer had stopped beside a tree. The way the shadows of the branches crossed her face helped to ease the illusion. “Like who?”

“Like Barbara.”

“I look like…your wife.”

“So I think it’d be important to find out if replacements are made from the captive’s DNA or someone else’s.”

“There’s more to that.”

“And if some synths are just thrust into this world without any clue as to who they are, without replacing anyone.”

She put her hand on her hip. “Deacon, why are you telling me this?”

“I just…don’t want to see you get close to anyone you’d regret getting close to, and you’re getting close to a lot of people.”

Charmer had just stared at him. “Is Piper a synth?”

“Piper?”

“She seems…to know things first-hand that someone her age shouldn’t know.”

“I don’t think Piper’s a synth. Just a really good reporter.”

A nod. “Who, then?”

Deacon had leaned against the tree. Charmer leaned beside him. “We’ve been ferrying synths outta here for a long time. You know how it goes. They get the wipe, they get their new identities, they go off. I’ve been doing this for longer than you know. Did just about every job short of doctor and creative scientist. Sometimes a face sparks a memory of a past rescue, and you just shut the fuck up and pretend it’s fine to keep the synth safe and healthy. It’s easier for me to do, because I change my face. There’s not a danger of getting recognized. But I know them, Nora. I remember a couple of faces, those who accidentally wander back in. Maybe I helped some people get to the Capital Wasteland, long enough ago that they’d would’ve aged if they weren’t a synth, but they didn’t age at all. Maybe they’re back here now, doing things they wouldn’t be doing if they knew who they were. And now, given some of the data you acquired for us…”

Charmer hadn’t taken that well. She shook her head of the thought. “Stop! I don’t want to hear it. I’m not choosing anyone else. My heart is with the Minutemen and the Railroad. You don’t have to lie to me to keep me loyal!”

And that was the last conversation he’d had with her. Seriously. He thought maybe she’d even talk to him about things like, “Hey, here’s your favorite ammo,” or “See you on the next epic quest,” but instead she dumped him at Sanctuary, told Codsworth she was heading out to “collect her thoughts,” and refused the companionship of anyone. Then she disappeared.

This whole thing was Deacon’s fault, because he’d been stupid about trying to tell her Danse was a synth. He’d done it the wrong way. He really wanted her to think about the whole DNA thing, because she was already having troubles reconciling her want to defeat the Institute with knowing that these synths were, in essence, her grandchildren. Adding that to the worst kind of sin in the form of an accidental romance would’ve destroyed her. _It really was about you, Nora._

Deacon lost his target. That was fine. The Rust Devil hideout wasn’t far from here. It was a shithole, a collection of shacks and a busted bunker, but a scandal had rocked this particular arm of the Rust Devils in the not-so-distant past, putting it on Deacon’s radar. He’d been keeping tabs on them, like he did with every player in the Commonwealth, and their leader, Tarno, had multiplied his forces in response to the scandal. He went from small potatoes to a very angry, childish potato with a lot more guns and robots. These were the worst kind of potatoes.

He slipped unseen behind a trader’s shack and trudged through a creekbed. At the end of this river, lay an old fishing shack. Beyond that, a scalable rock face and a ridge of trees overlooking the Rust Devil encampment. Deacon shivered, the water up to his knees, and quietly emerged from the gentle creek at the fishing shack.

He pissed on a tree before heading inside, where he took off his boots and tipped them upside down. He rested his head on a chair without legs and let himself take a power nap.

He woke up with a start when someone sat beside him.

“Hey Stranger,” said MacCready. “Forget about me already?”

Deacon groaned and rolled over. “Did you seriously interrupt my one moment of shut-eye?”

“I was gonna let you sleep. You’re the jumpy one.”

Deacon groaned again and sat up. He adjusted his sunglasses. “How long’ve you been tailing me?”

“A little after you left Diamond City. Piper’s idea. We lied and said I was going to get Preston.” He patted his pack. “Thirsty? Hungry? Need a stimpak for anything?”

“Since when do you share?”

“Since we became partners.”

Deacon was used to climbing out of a nap that felt abysmal. The presence of MacCready made this time more frustrating. _Keep it cool_ , he thought. “Piper, huh? You take orders from a reporter?”

“I take caps from a reporter. And anyway, I’m not in the mood to fight another possessed deathclaw. I’d rather just send those guys on their way and get Nora back.” He patted his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, a brand out of the Capital Wasteland. “Smoke?”

“You even gonna bother to check if there are hostiles nearby before you light up?” Deacon raised himself and scanned the area outside the shack’s door. Ok, fine, MacCready got lucky this time. He sat back down and held out his hand. It’d been a while since he had one of these.

MacCready passed it along and offered Deacon a light. Deacon took it—okay, so MacCready possessed the ability to showcase some manners on occasion too.

“I know you’re not that happy to see me, Deacon, but maybe tell me what I did to piss you off.”

No reason to lie here. “You’re boring and rude and just a little evil.”

“Evil? Come on, man.”

“Oh, right, sorry. We just call you MacGreedy on accident. You know how it is, when people talk with their mouth full. You don’t really hear what they say.”

“Nothing wrong with taking someone’s caps if they offer them, or putting a price on your work. If you can do something well, don’t do it for free.”

“Caps are backed by goods, which are in flux and priced differently depending on where you are and who you are. So caps are really backed by something unstable. By themselves, they’re worthless.”

“Huh?”

“Tell me what ten caps can buy you.”

“It depends where you are.”

“But across the board, ten caps has at least one standard thing it can buy you no matter where you are, right?”

“Dude, I lived in the Capital Wasteland. I heard all about the pre-war economy, and contrary to what you’re saying, what backed currency then was _also_ in flux.” He ashed his cigarette away from Deacon. Good. “I prefer it this way. Prices have a different influence than the price of some locked away hunk of metal that the rest of us won’t ever see. At least I can look at someone and what they’re selling and know it’s there.”

Deacon _tched_ and flicked ashes into a cracked ceramic bowl. He pulled it over and put it between them. “Hey, look, now we don’t have to start this place on fire.”

MacCready grunted and used the makeshift ashtray. “So what else?”

“What else what?”

“What else about me gets on your nerves?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Just tell me.”

Deacon exhaled through his nose. He always wondered if he looked like a dragon when he did that. Man, that’d be cool. _Should I think about getting some scales this time around? Would that be too weird?_ No. Then Desdemona would have that talk with him again. Yeah, becoming a ghoul had been extremely bigoted of him. Sometimes the dick he’d been before meeting Barbara reared its stupid, ugly head. He wished he could make up for everything he’d done. “You act your age,” said Deacon.

“You’re annoyed I act like an adult?”

“No, you act like a kid. Selfish.”

“I was married and had a family.”

“So…?”

MacCready turned to him. “Were you about to say ‘So was I’?”

Deacon _tched_ again and took a drag, shaking his head. “No,” he said after another dragonlike exhalation. “You make annoying small talk. ‘Stay safe.’ You know how many times you say that to me?”

“Should I tell you to go out there and get shot?”

“It’s too generic.”

“Ah, so I come off as insincere.” MacCready sucked down the last of his stick. “This coming from the Prince of Lies.”

“It’s called survival, MacGreedy.”

“So’s getting caps.” He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, offered another to Deacon, who gave him an incredulous look and reminded him of the smoke _he was still working on_. MacCready shrugged and took one for himself. “What was her name?”

“Okay.” Deacon snuffed his smoke in the bowl and stood. He shoved his feet into his moist boots and grabbed his rifle. “We’re done.”

“Aw man.” MacCready put out his cigarette and left it in the bowl. “Maybe the next person’ll get to appreciate that.”

Deacon grimaced. “Who would risk smoking a used cigarette?”

MacCready shrugged. “It happens.”

Deacon rolled his eyes and went on the move. “If you’ve been tailing me this long without me knowing, then you’d better know who we’re after.”

“You always walk so fast?”

“When I have an opportunity to. Did you hear me?”

“Come on, Deacon, where’s that sense of humor? Why so matter-of-fact?”

“I asked you a question.”

MacCready groaned. “Rust Devils. Seems like Tarno’s gang, but they’re no big deal.”

“Were you even at Starlight?”

“What?”

“Forget it,” said Deacon, sweeping past a cluster of trees. He spotted a familiar patch of boulders. Beyond that lay the pitiful bunker that Tarno and his gang called home. “You were probably out assassinating some farmer for a handful of caps.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Cool. Hightail it home then.”

They came to the base of the rock face. Deacon stopped and slung his rifle across his back.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Right, because Piper paid you to do what, exactly?” Damn it, where was that foothold? It was bad enough these things were still slick from the rain. Deacon had no desire to add thirty minutes onto his route just to find that slope. The sentry bot was probably there right now, given how little time had passed during his nap.

MacCready secured his rifle to his back and found that foothold, the little shit. “Cover your ass, er, butt until reinforcements get here.”

Deacon grumbled and followed MacCready’s boots up the rock ledge. “And leave a trail too, huh?”

“Yeah, that too.”

“She was that sure you’d find me?”

“She was sure that you’d find _them_.”

“Can’t complain about that. I’m kind of awesome.”

“There it is!” MacCready made it to the top and extended his hand. Deacon begrudgingly took it. “Camp’s pretty close.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How do you wanna play this?”

“Covert extraction.”

“I was thinking we shoot them all and watch them scramble while they try and figure out where the shots are coming from.”

“Can’t risk hitting that sentry bot’s fusion cores, not until we figure out where they’re keeping Danse and Dean.”

MacCready chuckled. “Oh man, you really think _I’m_ gonna miss a target? That’s funny, Deacon. Really glad you’re back to joking.”

“You wanna put that to the test, MacCready?”

MacCready arched a brow to the brim of his hat. “You think you’re a better shot than me?”

“Think, know, etcetera, etcetera.” Deacon dusted himself off and walked ahead. “Tell you what. If I think that sentry bot isn’t gonna be a problem, we can see who’s the better shot.”

“Funny, you talking about people like points.”

“Rust Devils aren’t people. They’re psychotic slavers.”

“I’m kidding.” MacCready put his hand on Deacon’s shoulder. “Let’s make it interesting.”

Deacon shrugged MacCready’s hand away. “Full of clichés, aren’t we?”

“I win, you have to tell me about your wife, or husband, or partner. I’ll even be nice and supply the whiskey.”

“Smokes. That’s more my thing.”

“Sure, smokes.”

“Alright,” said Deacon. “I’ll bite. If I win, then…” They stepped into another wooded area. Smoked meat spoke of the nearby Rust Devil camp. He pressed himself to a tree and gestured to MacCready. “If I win,” he whispered, “I get those caps Piper paid you. And a pack of those smokes. _And_ you won’t eat a mutfruit in the same room as me ever again.”

“Uh, okay?”

“You’ve never heard how you eat?”

“Mutfruit’s best when it’s super ripe.”

“Oh god, I better win this,” Deacon muttered.

MacCready grumbled. “Okay, what do we do in a tie?”

“You’re conceding that I might tie with you? Not so confident, are we?”

“Just being a good sport and giving you a little hope.”

Deacon withheld a laugh. “Fine, since we’re both losers if we tie, we both honor our losership.”

“Wait, I’ve gotta give you _two_ packs of smokes?”

“Huh, I guess it _does_ work out that way. Maybe I’ll strive for a tie.”

MacCready laughed through his nose. “Fine. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They shook hands.

“I’m taking that tree,” said MacCready, pointing to…oh no.

“That’s _my_ tree.”

“Really?” MacCready grinned. “Because that’s what I use when I come this way. You could fire a cannon and not fall out of that thing. The bough is so perfect—”

“You could even take a nap in it. Yeah. I know the tree.”

“Well, I called shotgun, so find another spot to set up.”

Deacon pointed a finger in his face. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

MacCready smirked, his stupid little juvenile beard-stache adding a certain smug flare to it. “At least you’re not lying.” He put his foot on the trunk. “Wait, how do we know when to start?”

“We’ll signal a thumbs up and count to three.”

“Seriously?”

“No. If the shot comes up, we _take_ it.”

MacCready peered through the trees. “What about figuring out the sentry bot thing?”

“Okay, there’s _that_ , but once I give you _that_ thumbs up, then we just do our thing.” Deacon headed for another good spot, a boulder covered by bushes and trees. Man, the Rust Devils really did have a shitty spot for a camp. Deacon turned back, forgetting to mention one key thing. “I kinda hate working with people because they are constantly fucking things up, so here’s my rule: maybe let’s keep an eye on each other in case one of us sees something the other can’t. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“I know how to work with people, Deacon.”

“Right, just checking.”

Deacon set up his rifle and got situated in his spot. The sentry bot was dormant, its tread sticking out from beneath the farthest shack. Assaultrons patrolled. Rust Devils, _way too many_ , went about their business. No sign of Danse or Dean. Deacon signaled to MacCready, who responded accordingly, and they lined up their shots.

An assaultron lost its head. Damn it, score one for MacCready.

Rust Devils scattered toward cover. Deacon took out the one heading toward the sentry bot. MacCready took out the other. Damn it. Score two for MacCready.

Deacon nailed an assaultron in the leg, tearing it clean off. He smirked, waiting for another Rust Devil to follow the scent the assaultron had torn ass to, and popped the assaultron’s head. The small explosion took out the Rust Devil. Score three for Deacon!

The turrets caught Deacon’s position, and fired. Deacon buried himself behind the boulder, and glanced at MacCready, who fired, fired, and fired again. He gave Deacon the okay. Deacon whipped out from cover and fired on the first hostile he spotted. MacCready was clearly ahead, but now Deacon was on damage control. Kill them before they killed…them. It’s us or them? Yeah, that phrase worked.

A boxy, electrified robot appeared. Spikes and bone jutted out from its limbs. Flanked by two floating eyebots, it raced for Deacon’s—no, MacCready’s position.

MacCready’s bullet smashed one eyebot. Deacon’s merely jostled the other. Deacon fired at the Rust Devil’s murderous, bone-quilted bot. Nice hit, but it did squat. MacCready had the same luck.

Deacon must’ve lost count of bullets; his gun needed a reload. He moved swiftly, hearing the charge of an assaultron. He and MacCready had been totally and utterly made. “Should’ve gone with my plan!” he shouted.

“Just shut up and run!”

Deacon took a shot at the freakish robot, downed it. He swept his gun around to fire upon the assaultron, but the assaultron knocked him on his ass.

“Should have given up,” the assaultron taunted in its digital, tinny voice. Its claws spun, threatening to drill Deacon while it charged its laser. Deacon swatted at the robot with his rifle, but the assaultron tore it away. Furious, Deacon dodged another drill attack at his head, and plunged his fingers between the black plates of the assaultron’s armor. He pulled hard on the first thing he grabbed. The assaultron struggled, pinching Deacon’s fingers in its undulation, but Deacon kept pulling and got his feet beneath the assaultron for some leverage before pushing it away. Wires snapped. The assaultron fell atop him with all its weight.

Deacon shoved it off with MacCready’s help and dashed for cover from the explosion. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Are we about to get captured?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Deacon pulled out a pistol. His rifle had hopped away from him in the explosion. He fired at the closest raider, who was pretty fucking close. “Let me do the talking,” he said. “If Tarno doesn’t murder us right away.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive. I’ve got a lot of info on these guys.”

“Yeah, same here.” MacCready fired. Hit. Shit, he was totally winning this round. Best two of three, yeah, that’s what Deacon would suggest if they survived this thing.

“Okay, punks,” shouted an angry voice, “we’ve got you surrounded. Lemme see your faces, or you’re gonna see a live grenade.”

Deacon looked at MacCready. _Ready?_

MacCready nodded.

They exited cover, and raised their hands, coming face to face with several guns, some patient robots, and Tarno.

“Ah, MacCready,” said Tarno. “You really do follow the caps, don’t ya?”

_Wait, what?_ Deacon kept his face stony and plain. _That’s how you know him? You worked for him before? Could’ve said something a second ago, MacGreedy._

“What can I say?” said MacCready. Deacon wanted to shout the answer to that. “Can’t turn down a pile of caps. Think you can top my offer?”

“You think I wanna pay you for killing my guys?”

“Hey, you and I both know a merc is just a messenger.”

“You might be a greedy son of a gun, MacCready, but you’d never sell out a client.” Tarno laughed. “At least not while you’ve got an open contract with ’em, obviously.”

“Got me there. You still gonna kill us?”

“No. I think I’m gonna keep you.” Tarno pressed the barrel of his rifle to MacCready’s chin. “See, I think you might be here on behalf of someone I’ve got a little beef with. Now they’ve got a shit-ton of caps and more useful scrap than anyone in the ‘Wealth, but they’ve also got a shiny, do-gooder heart. I’m thinking she might come this way if I keep collecting her little toys.”

At least word of Charmer’s disappearance hadn’t made its way around yet.

“Whaddya say?” Tarno now shoved his gun into Deacon’s throat. Any harder and Deacon would gag. “You be a good little prisoner and I might let you live a while.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Deacon.

“Smart guy, here.” Tarno looked at the remainder of his large gang. “You know what to do.”

MacCready seemed pleased with the outcome, and smiled at Deacon. Deacon sent him a scowl over the top of his sunglasses. MacCready caught it. He knew what he’d done.

 


	22. .sunshine and dark clouds. | .sam.

.sunshine and dark clouds.

.sam.

* * *

Sunshine Tidings Co-op was a creepy town. On the way up the hill, Nick had given Sam a pre-war history lesson on the settlement. Sam didn’t want to be suspicious of the place, but once he entered the mismatched gate of plywood and wire fencing, and saw the scattered pre-war cabins amongst farms and newer buildings, every stereotype from his world sent an unease through his body. He kept expecting to meet a supreme leader and his uniformed, flower-braided-hair followers, despite telling himself that the stereotype at home was not accurate, and that he was being a judgmental fool.

Prejudice was a prolific, resilient weed requiring more work than a cursory acknowledgement of its existence; uprooting it was a never-ending, evolving task. So would Dean ever see things Sam’s way? Would he ever be able to truly accept sentient non-humans as worthy of the same rights and respect as humans? Did he view Castiel as “one of the good ones”? An “exception to the rule”?

Because the people here were good. And yet Sam still felt creeped out just because of a _name_ and a _structure_.

And Sam, well, he knew he had a more open mind than Dean. So if Sam couldn’t even erase _this_ from himself, how could he expect Dean to do the same? Dean didn’t even _want_ to do the work to change. Maybe it was easier that way. Maybe Dean, in this respect, was both lazy and a coward.

Sam filed that thought under “things not to say when you’re pissed at Dean.”

“Be right back,” said Piper as they skirted the edge of a tato farm. She split from the group and caught up with another provisioner, outfitted similarly to other provisioners he’d seen in Minutemen settlements. Sam envisioned himself in the get-up again, the reinforced military fatigues, the combat armor strapped to his chest and every limb, the sharp beret and standardized sunglasses.

“Still don’t know why she wants ’em to look like god-damned Gunners,” said Cait. “Too much nostalgia for me.”

“Gunners look that much like soldiers?” said Sam.

“Lifted the look from one of those comic books, I think.” The group neared a long, metal warehouse. “Hey Hancock, fancy a trip to the pub?”

“You’re speaking my language, sister.” Hancock slung a friendly arm around Cait and headed up the slight incline to the bar.

“I also fancy a trip to the pub,” said Castiel in his signature enunciative manner. “We may find Dean there.”

“Actually, Cas,” said Sam, stopping an already moving Castiel. “I was hoping we could talk for a second.”

“You two do what you need to,” said Nick. “I need to catch up with the local Minutemen. Don’t go too far. There’s mirelurks nearby, and I’m sorry to say, you won’t be able to handle them easily with those weapons.”

“We’ll be sticking around,” said Sam.

“Good.” Nick gave them a goodbye nod and jogged off to one of the refurbished cabins.

Sam looked around the town. Like Sanctuary, it had power, a busy market, and hardworking folks. However, its scattered farm plots plagued the air with brahmin manure, a scent not unfamiliar in any world, but one that took getting used to. He and Castiel walked over the pebble strewn pathways, as there were few sidewalks or platforms like those in Sanctuary and Starlight. They found a small boulder overlooking a narrow tato farm. Over the rooftop of a cabin, large structures loomed, lanterns starring the scaffolding that climbed them. Silos, maybe, or something else important to the pre-war farm. The structure sat outside the patchwork fence, but Sunshine Tidings appeared to be expanding. The sight was quite beautiful when set amongst the cold black of night.

“I forgot to tell you, but we found your blade.” Sam dusted off the drying rock before sitting. “It’s in Sanctuary. I didn’t want to risk losing it out here.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Castiel sat with his palms on the edge of the boulder, as if ready to pounce at the mere whisper of Dean’s name. “This world is unusual, Sam. I worry it may take some time to return home.”

“Yeah, about that…Dean and I tried using sigils when we first got here, and nothing worked, but then me and the others ran into a possessed deathclaw—”

“A deathclaw?”

“A giant, mutated lizard thing, but it’s not supernatural.” Sam waited for Castiel’s nod to continue. “It made me think our world had collided in another way, or maybe that the portal is somehow still open.”

“It could explain how I regained some of my powers as time went on,” said Castiel. “I also tried sigils, thinking I could return for you and Dean, but they didn’t work for me either.” A settler passed them, eyed them, let them be, and moved on. “I tried it again last night. It did not work. I feel as though my powers have hit a plateau.”

“Completely stagnant?”

“Yes. I can heal others, I can regenerate. My ‘angel radio’ comes in fuzzy, like static. At times I feel I can make out the prayers of the people, but I cannot lock onto an identity, a purpose, or a location. I cannot teleport, though that was a problem beforehand, and I wouldn’t even know where to teleport here. Perhaps it is my damaged grace, but I fear it is worse.”

“So all we have to do is figure out _where_ our world is colliding with this one, jump in, and hope for the best.” Sam leaned back onto his hands. “Are you at least able to sense any kind of…I don’t know, distortion in the energy or whatever? Like you did by the river?”

“I don’t know.” Cas lifted his head suddenly.

“What is it?”

Cas peered through the town. “I hear something.”

Sam stilled, listening for whatever Castiel had locked onto. A hearty laugh erupted from the entirety of the bar.

“Oh, never mind,” said Castiel. “I’m sorry I distracted you. What did you want to tell me?”

“Cas…” Sam sat forward again, putting his hands in his lap. “If we’re stuck here, I mean, for good, we need to figure out what we’re going to do. Who we’re going to align with.”

“I will go with you and Dean.”

“That’s the thing…”

“Dean has chosen this Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Yeah. Even before he ran off with…we were talking about this before we came to find you. I don’t want to be with them. They have means and technology, but their ideals are crap.”

Castiel nodded. “People like Hancock would not do well in a land ruled by the Brotherhood. He’s very nice, if rough around the edges. He reminds me of a hunter.”

“Funny. He and Dean seem to hate each other.”

“He’s nice to me. I enjoyed Goodneighbor while I was there. Did you know Hancock is the mayor?”

Sam shrugged his brows. “Goodneighbor. Huh. It’s a little…small, don’t you think?”

“I have ideas on how to expand its borders. Hancock and I discussed this at length on the trip here while you spoke to the detective.”

“So you’d want to stay in…Goodneighbor?”

“Perhaps. It feels welcoming to someone like me.” Castiel glanced back at the bar, where another laugh erupted. “It isn’t that far from here, even given the walking. You and Dean would not have to stay with me, if you were going to the Brotherhood.”

“I was kind of thinking of joining the Minutemen,” said Sam.

“They own this place.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘own,’ but yeah. The soldiers form squads and patrol the settlements to keep them safe. Maybe run supplies for farmers, or save someone from raiders. Given that there’s a supernatural element here now that wasn’t here before, I think, I dunno, maybe that’s what I’d wanna do. It’s what I’m good at.”

“You and Dean would be well suited to the task.”

“And hey, we could visit you in Goodneighbor, if that’s where you wanted to stay…”

Castiel put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t give up hope, Sam.”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to be smart about this.” Sam sighed, and his stomach rumbled. “I’ve got a few caps left. Wanna grab a beer?”

“I do not require sustenance.”

“I know, but did you just wanna hang out and have a beer? I need to eat anyway.”

“Alright. We will meet up with Cait and Hancock. I have much to discuss with the latter.”

Sam chuckled. “I’m sure he’d _love_ to chat with you.” He stood with Castiel, and turned toward the path to find Piper staring back at them.

“Hey boys,” she said. “Got a minute to talk about sigils?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Gimme a break, Piper, I need to eat something.”

“I have a moment to talk about sigils,” said Castiel.

“Perfect,” said Piper. “So sigils are what, spells or some kind of power?”

“That is a very basic way of putting it, and not exactly—”

“Would you mind talking about them a little more with me? Maybe draw the one or ones you and Sam were talking about specifically? Throw in some everyday ones for good measure?” She handed him a notebook and pencil. “Like, what does each sigil do, exactly? How do you activate them? Things like that.”

“I don’t know how this is relevant,” said Castiel. He looked to Sam. Sam just shook his head _whatever_. Piper would get tired of Castiel’s strange way of speaking soon enough.

“I was thinking, if your world’s _really_ leaking into ours, that maybe, given the state of it, someone had to write some of this stuff down for the good guys. What better way to do that than to talk to a primary source, a freakin’ _angel_. Whaddya say, Castiel? First round’s on me?”

“You’ll pay for our beer?”

“Sure,” said Piper. “It’s not like either of you have enough caps to do it, that’s pretty _obvious_.”

Sam stopped her just before the door to the bar. “If we get stuck here, we’ll pay you back for getting him out of there.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Winchester,” she said with a wink.

The lights flickered inside. The bar erupted into a cheer—why did bar patrons do that?—but the three of them did not have the same enthusiasm. Piper glanced at the power lines, while Sam and Castiel shared a look.

“I need to talk to the owner.” Sam squeezed his way past them, leaving Castiel at Piper’s mercy, and made his way to the counter. Patrons laughed, smiled, ogled him a little. He approached the bartender. “Do you own this place?”

“I run this place. No one really _owns_ the buildings around here.”

“Because it’s a co-op?”

“What?” The bartender, gruff mannered, with peach skin and white hair as weathered as the pre-war cabins, reached beneath the counter for a bottle of warm beer. “The General technically owns the place. ‘Rent-to-own,’ she calls it, ’til we make up the cost of fixing the space up. I’ve got one more payment to go, and the place is officially mine on paper. Now, you want anything? Because if you’ve got a _beat_ on the General, that’d be great.”

_I thought no one knew the General was missing?_ “Um, no, actually, I was wondering if the flickering power—” The lights flashed again, and the bar patrons responded accordingly. “—If the flickering power was a regular problem here, or just started tonight, or maybe within…the past two weeks? Maybe accompanied by a strange smell, or cold spots?”

“The whole damn place is a cold spot,” said the bartender. “But yeah, that’s why I’d sure love to see the General. Usually she responds to our calls, seeing as we’re so close to home base—Sanctuary, not Diamond City. Even Preston woulda made the journey this way, but it’s been a few days since we sent the message and all we got was the lowest-rung squad.”

“The only problems you’ve had have been with power, though?”

“No. Minutemen checked the lines, just like the folks around here already did. Nothing’s wrong. Yet you see what’s happening here. Happens every night, it seems.”

“You said no.” The power flickered again. Sam looked back at the restaurant area, which erupted _again_ , and spotted Castiel, who was receiving different types of attention from Piper, Hancock, and Cait. Sam’s face flattened and he looked back at the bartender. “Sorry, go on.”

“You with the Minutemen?”

“The Companions, yeah,” said Sam. “Sam Winchester.”

“Henry Deavers.” They shook hands. Henry quickly fulfilled the order of a patron. “We’ve been having some smells here, but nothing unusual. Some of those fancy Vault-Tec johns the General saw to building for us have malfunctioned. Place stinks of—”

“Sulphur.”

“Yeah.”

“Where are they?”

“Out back. They flush alright, but I’d hold your breath. I’d say you and your pals need to take a look at the pumps, maybe one of the conduits. Probably happening in there somewhere, giving our lights a scare and screwing with how water comes in, and backing the whole thing up.”

“So flickering lights, a weird smell. Nothing else…kind of…strange?”

Henry leaned in. “You think it’s sabotage or something?”

How could Sam approach this without accidentally starting a witch-hunt? “No, not at all.”

Nick entered the bar, much to the delight of those nearest the door. They nodded and smiled at him, shook his hand. Nick smiled back and excused himself to join Sam.

“Henry,” said Nick. “Mind if I borrow Sam here?”

“As long as one of you handles our work order, you can do whatever you want.”

Sam and Nick headed for the group, pulling up chairs and interrupting everyone’s Cas time.

“We have a problem,” said Sam, trying to skirt the attention of any eavesdroppers.

“Funny, I was about to say the same thing,” said Nick. “You first.”

“I think there’s a demon here.”

Cait rolled her eyes. “Trouble follows you, doesn’t it, Sam?”

Cas glanced at the patrons. “I have been searching for it since the power first flickered, but thus far I can’t find it.”

“And here I thought we were starting to bore you,” said Hancock.

“I find you fascinating.”

Hancock smirked. Drunken patrons behind him _clinked_ their glasses together in a toast.

“I suppose this is the best time to mention those power fluctuations,” said Nick. “Being what I am, I thought you should know my sensors have been going wonky since we arrived here. I went out completely for a second when I was talking to the captain. I’d like to head back to Sanctuary and see if Sturges can take a look at me. I’m not talking about going in for a complete tune-up, but I’d like to make sure I don’t become a liability for you. Should be up and running by tomorrow if I leave soon, as long as I don’t go kaput between here and there. Still better than me calling it quits in the middle of a fight.”

“You were talking to the captain when it happened?” said Sam. “Has it happened since?”

“It’s happening now, but the worst of it was—say, are you thinking our problems are related?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Sam.

“Was there anyone else present?” said Castiel.

“Couple of Minutemen.”

“We need to go,” said Castiel, pushing Piper’s paper and pencil back to her.

“Wait, you two ain’t goin’ alone,” said Hancock.

Sam stood. “It’s better that way. We can’t risk it possessing any of you.”

“Hold on,” said Piper. “There’s no way I’m gonna let this go unwitnessed.”

“You may not have to.” Nick directed his eyes toward the entrance.

A man of great stature and glowing peach skin walked through the door. He tightened his short, brown ponytail, then headed for the bar and ordered a beer.

Sam lifted his brows. “Cas?”

“He’s a demon.”

“Shit.” Sam did a quick count of exits. “We to need evacuate everyone, or lure him out of here before he spots Cas.” He glared at the group. “Go!”

“And what happens when _you_ get possessed?” said Hancock. “Ya think we’re just gonna let that happen?”

“I can’t be possessed,” said Sam.

“Maybe you could share with the rest of the class,” said Cait.

“It’s a tattoo, and there’s no time.”

“He’s heading our way…” said Nick.

The table stood.

“You didn’t happen to mention my name, did you?” said Sam.

“I did,” said Nick. “Didn’t think this was going to happen.”

“Yeah, neither did I.”

The possessed captain smiled and waved away the patrons between them. They stumbled into each other, uncertain of what had just pushed them, and the power flickered off. People cheered at first, but when the power didn’t come back on, the cheers reduced to murmurs. The whole town seemed to be in that building at that moment, creating a thick miasma of people. Candles on the tables danced and dimmed in the demon’s presence.

“I think Nick’s down,” said Piper. “Nick?” She waved her hand in front of his unblinking, stationary face. “Nick?”

“Sam Winchester,” said the captain, his eyes demonic black. “I guess the rumors back home are true.”

“Get out of him,” said Sam.

“No thanks,” said the demon. “This place could use a proper Hell, not this pathetic post-apocalyptic analogue. I’ve already planted my flag, and that makes me the new king. Shouldn’t take long to make some cohorts in a place like this. I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel rushed the demon, who tried to wave him away but failed. Cas tackled him to the floor, to the gasps of unknowing bar patrons, who had drawn weapons. Two fired at him, only to find themselves at the end of Hancock’s curses.

The demon struggled. “Kill him! He’s a spy! Kill him!”

Castiel shoved the captain down by his forehead, and glowed bright white. The firing stopped; the patrons gaped in curious horror. The white fire faded, and the demon within the captain cackled, louder and louder, until Castiel gave in and started punching him.

“Cas, no!” Sam and Cait pried Castiel off the possessed captain, who rose and telekinetically flung the three of them aside. They collided with chairs and frightened patrons. Shots rang out again. Sam scrambled to his feet, getting kicked by fleeing people. Henry Deavers had unearthed a shotgun, but another settler grabbed him and forced him to duck behind the counter.

The demon pinned those nearest him against walls. “Looks like your angel’s having trouble getting it up.” He grinned.

Sam began the incantation for an exorcism.

The demon growled with a shudder, and tossed Sam aside. The gale knocked over Nick’s statuesque body. “You’ll have to try harder than that, Winchester. This is one tough meatsuit.”

Sam kept it up. Castiel tried to restrain the demon, but was matched with equal strength.

“You really gonna kill a pillar of this community, angel?” said the demon.

Castiel struggled to exorcise him with holy light again. The demon gave another shudder, but shook Castiel off. Castiel threw another punch. Around Sam, Hancock and Cait ferried out the remaining bar patrons.

The demon laughed through bloody teeth. “Go ahead, kill this meatsuit. You aren’t gonna stop me.”

_Bang._

The demon slumped into Castiel, giving the angel another chance to attempt exorcism. Blood poured from the captain’s shoulder.

“Piper!” repeated Hancock. “You’ll kill him!”

Sam repeated the incantation, trying not to think about the lack of holy water and a Devil’s Trap. Trying not to focus on Piper, who strode forward without a care, and fired another bullet into the demon. Now the captain looked as if wings had been torn off his back.

Nothing worked.

Piper fired again. This shot clustered beside the first.

“Stop, Piper!” Sam couldn’t afford another interruption, nor could the captain. “He’s just gonna find another body!”

Piper fired again. “That’s the _plan_.”

She threw Castiel a stimpak as the captain ejected the demon. The pillar of black rose into the electrified air and plunged into Piper’s throat. Sulphur permeated the air, and flickering candles created malevolent shadows on the walls and ceiling.

“Silly girl,” said the demon, cloaked in Piper’s voice and body.

“Damn straight,” said Cait. “What the hell’re you thinking, Piper! Fight him!”

Sam began the incantation again.

The demon snorted and shot Sam a look. “Your brother’s as good as dead! The Brotherhood will never let him go!”

Sam steadied his breath, kept his eyes locked on the demon, and continued the Latin incantation.

The demon’s eyes darted to Hancock, who’d raised his own weapon. “Yes, kill her. What better way to get back into your brother’s good graces? Or will Diamond City declare war on Goodneighbor? Let’s find out.”

The demon raised Piper’s hand, and a pipe pistol levitated off the ground. Hancock fought to release his own shotgun, but soon the pipe pistol was in his hand, its barrel turning toward his mouth.

_Just get out of her!_ Sam snarled out the incantation.

“Hey, handsome!” Cait caught Castiel’s attention. “What kind of man doesn’t offer a lady a seat?”

Sam stammered, unsure of what Cait was attempting, but Castiel seemed to understand. The demon caught onto the plan too late. Castiel shoved the demon into Piper’s former chair, which it thenceforth struggled to rise from. Hancock dropped the pistol and ran to the captain’s aid.

_A Devil’s Trap!_ Removing one worry from the equation gave Sam the resolve he needed to revitalize the exorcism.

“You skanky bitch!” growled the demon, aching to lunge at Cait’s throat. “That’s what your General thinks of you! Just a common whore who got what she deserved!”

“Yeah yeah, whatever you say,” said Cait. “I’ve heard worse.”

The demon roared. “You’ll never see her again! Any of you! The portal’s closed forever and you’re all gonna die without saying goodbye!”

“I don’t think so.” Castiel placed his hand on Piper’s head, and glowed. “Keep going, Sam!”

Sam continued the exorcism, squinting in Castiel’s radiance. Upon the final word, the demon violently burst out from Piper’s mouth, recalled to Hell. If only Sam could follow it back to the portal, if it were still open.

The room stilled. The candles danced appropriately, no longer under a demonic influence. Outside, onlookers gasped at the trail of black leaving the settlement.

“Hey guys,” said Piper, after a few lumbering breaths. “Captain okay?”

Cait threw her arms around Piper and squeezed. Sam swept a hand through his hair and eyed the captain.

“Yeah, he’s good,” said Hancock, taking a stimpak from a confused Henry. “Could use an angelic touch.”

“Of course.” Castiel placed two fingers on the captain’s head. The captain’s wounds healed, and he appropriately mumbled. Henry and the other settler took over his care.

Sam picked up Piper’s notebook from the floor. It was flipped open to a sigil Castiel had drawn for her. The Devil’s Trap. “You planned this?” He handed it to her.

She rubbed her throat. “Yeah. Wasn’t sure a sigil written in pencil was gonna work, but hey, looks like it did.” Henry passed along a Nuka-Cola, and she guzzled it for a second. “That’s a little better. Sorry about shooting you, Captain. I had a stimpak and Castiel lined up, if that changes anything. No hard feelings?”

“I would’ve done the same…I think? I’m confused. Henry, any idea what’s going on here?”

Sam leaned against a wall and glanced out the window the demon had been repulsed through. It was too dark to see the speck of a demon cloud now, but he was pretty sure this window faced the general direction of Sam and Dean’s landing spot. “That was stupid, taking it on like that.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t resist getting the scoop on the thing.”

“You’re telling me you let yourself get possessed just so you could write about the feeling of it?” Hancock sighed and shook his head. “Pipes, Sam is right. That was stupid.”

“Uh, no, though that’s an added bonus.” She took another sip of the Nuka-Cola. “I did it to solve one of our major problems.” She polished the Nuka-Cola off. “Sorry, I keep feeling like I need to just swallow. Like an anti-gag or something after that thing flew up and down my throat.” She steadied herself. “The portal’s still open, and I know where to find it.”

The group traded glances.

“Hey, uh, maybe we could send Nick back to Sanctuary with a message on that whole thing? Anyone seen Danica?”

“Who?” said Hancock.

“The provisioner,” said Henry. “Yeah, she was about to leave, last I saw.”

“We should probably chase her down and bring her back here,” said Piper. “I have something else to get to Sturges.”

“You mean Nick?” said Castiel.

“Oh, shoot, Nick? Nick?” Piper stood and waved her hand in front of his face. He blinked. “Oh, this has happened before. Give him a second.”

“What did you mean by ‘something else,’ Pipes?” said Hancock.

“Um…I might’ve been using my distribution lines to transmit vital information really fast via relay messengers. Stuff like, ‘Oh, the portal’s probably still open, so look for ectoplasm, it’s probably gooey.’ ” She sniffed the air and scrunched her nose. “Or, ‘Look for traces of sulphur! See if electronics go all crazy!’ Just little things for Ada and Curie to look into while Sturges gets to work.”

“You want to get a head start on the portal,” said Sam, “while we rescue Dean.”

“Yeah, pretty much, except I sort of already have that head start, so…yeah. This is just like a follow-up message, because I kind of…saw where the demon came through.”

“Where?”

“Like you said, a Red Rocket.” Piper shrugged. “Our team was looking for the wrong things, so they missed it.” She eyed the empty Nuka-Cola bottle. “We have almost everything they need now.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “You were gonna do this, with or without us?”

“I’m saying I don’t like to wait for opportunity, and decided to make one. I’d be a pretty bad reporter if I just waited for stories to land in my lap now, wouldn’t I?”

“That’s cold, Pipes,” said Hancock. “Not that I disagree, but it’s still cold.”

“I’d call it smart,” argued Cait.

Sam processed the information. _She was fine with leaving us behind. Maybe not. Maybe she was fine with getting Nora out first, and then coming back for us._ Piper was annoying, but contrary to Hancock’s opinion, Sam didn’t think she was cold. _It’s the same kinda thing Dean or Cas or I would do._ “It’s…it’s fine, Piper. I get it. There anything else to your plan?”

“Um…yeah. MacCready’s actually following Deacon, who I know is gonna find your brother and Danse.” She reached into her pocket. “Here’s the last message I got from him.”

“So Preston has no clue what’s going on?” Hancock picked up an overturned chair and took a seat. Piper handed him the message. “Shit, Piper…?”

“Preston’s…well—hey, Castiel, you okay over there?”

Castiel stared ahead, unseeing.

“Castiel, you tuning out on us?” asked Hancock.

But Sam knew that look. “You heard it again.”

Castiel half-nodded. “I think it’s…hold on.” He tilted his head, as if there were water in his ears. “I think…” Again, he tilted, and then his expression softened, into a slight smile. “I think it’s Dean. I think he’s praying.”

Sam tensed. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel slumped. “It’s gone now.”

Nick straightened up. “What’d I miss?”

“Nick!” said Piper. “Everything’s fine, here. Sort of.”

“Piper was just about to tell us how she lied to ultimately solve our huge problem,” said Hancock.

Nick sat down. “I knew you were up to something, Piper.”

Castiel looked at Sam, his brow wrinkled in worry.

“Yeah, well…” She blew a strand of hair away from her eye. “This is the part you really aren’t gonna like.”

 

 

 


	23. .a reluctant accord. | .preston.

.a reluctant accord.

.preston.

* * *

 

The Prydwen was an impressive feat of technology, but by far the most impressive thing about Boston Airport was the area curated and rebuilt under the direction of the General. Her signature was all over it, from the layout of the settlement, the materials used in structures, to the strategic fortifications. What Preston found most unsettling was her commitment to the work itself. He knew she ran with the Brotherhood, had risen in its ranks, but this was the first he had seen of it. He’d never worried about her allegiances before, and this location troubled him. Or perhaps it was all part of a plan to unite the Commonwealth, make it stronger against a common enemy. If only the Brotherhood could stop seeing some of the Commonwealth’s citizens as enemies.

Yet, even as Preston waited here in the General’s office, his confidence rose. The immediate threat was that of another world. If framed correctly, Elder Maxson would see the Winchesters’ world as insignificant, perhaps dangerous and best left alone. Good thing Preston knew how to spin the story. That’s what Piper had suggested anyway. Preston reflected on the message for several hours, but time was running out, and if he expected his reply to reach Piper in time, he had to make a decision. He didn’t love the suggestion, but he trusted Piper, and had given the order to follow through.

Sure, it was one of the _last_ things Preston wanted to do, but Piper’d made a pretty good argument, based on new information that arose during the mission.

He just had to hope Elder Maxson would bend to his will.

Elder Maxson was preceded by fully armored paladins. His weathered, leather long coat covered not only his black uniform, but the weapon at his hip. His young face bore a battle scar, and showed the peach-pink of sun damage. He was young by numbers only; perhaps the conviction that came with youth was what made him such an ideal Elder. Preston greeted him with a firm hand shake and a respectful head-bow, which Elder Maxson returned.

“Lieutenant General Garvey,” he said, voice as stern as his handshake. “It is an honor to meet you. While I do not agree with some of the Minutemen’s ideals, your organization has truly made a positive impact on the Commonwealth.”

“Thank you, Elder Maxson,” said Preston. “I could say the same to you. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the two plush armchairs set aside from the General’s personal desk. “The General has furnished quite the office here, and I’m sure she’d be pleased to know it went to good use.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

The men sat down.

“Please don’t take offense, Lieutenant General, but I’d like my paladins to remain here.”

“I came here alone.”

“You’re surrounded by her, in a sense.”

“In a sense. However, what I’m here to talk about is quite private and very urgent. I’m sure you can understand, given the unannounced and hasty nature of my visit. Hear me out first, and then decide if the information I have is trivial enough to share with your subordinates.”

Wow, Preston was used to being somewhat formal, but he hadn’t been _that_ formal since the old guard. He felt like one of those military men from the comics. Elder Maxson bought it, though, and that’s what counted.

“Very well.” Elder Maxson dismissed his retinue. “We may speak freely, then.”

“To some degree. I wouldn’t say it’s the time to throw verbal punches.”

“I agree. That wastes time, as do some of these pleasantries.”

“Agreed. So let’s get down to business. The General is missing.”

“Knight Nora? Missing?” He leaned to the side of the chair, pensive. “You’ve ascertained she isn’t on assignment with another faction? Perhaps recovering more intel on our common enemy?”

“No. We know _where_ she is, but we don’t quite know how she got there.”

“You didn’t need to bring me in on a missing persons case, Garvey. Knight Nora can handle herself. I could’ve easily relayed this information to any one of my squads, and they could’ve handled the threat.”

“The Minutemen could’ve handled it too—don’t forget who was doing this before you flew in here. Not to mention everyone in her inner circle, which includes your Paladin Danse, but we’ll get back to him in a moment.”

Maxson narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

“General Nora was swept through some kind of interdimensional portal and put into another world. Likewise, three men from that world fell through the same portal into ours. We’ve been unable to find the portal again, but new intel suggests its still open.”

Maxson rested his hand on his chin and studied Preston for several moments. “I find this difficult to believe, Garvey, but I can see you’re telling the truth in accordance with what is known about your character. What else has been exchanged between worlds?”

“Their rules,” said Preston. “Now, we don’t know what the General is experiencing over there, but we did confirm she was last seen alive. What we do know is that things from their world that were not previously possible here are now possible.”

“There is much that seems impossible here. How are you certain this is not some new ploy by the Institute?”

“I’m certain.” Preston explained certain details of the story, up to the moment he split from his team to visit the Castle. “The deathclaw was highly energized by their world. Were their world to continue coming into ours, much of the progress we’ve made here would be undone.”

“I agree,” said Maxson, to Preston’s hidden relief. “Their world, despite its multitude of strange terrors, has nothing good to offer us. Even if it did, I would be skeptical of giving my soldiers food from another world, green or not. Additionally, they, like us, seem to have their own version of the Institute, which has its own methods of manipulating their world. Given our advancements here, I worry they would infiltrate us to steal our knowledge and bring it back to their world. Another blatant abuse of technology.”

“Yes. The people of the Commonwealth deserve better than that. They already live in fear of the Institute and having their farms raided.”

“Agreed. We have our fill of abominations.”

“We could use your help on this, Maxson.”

“I want to offer it, however this is a military organization. We must be prudent about our resources. That said, your previous mention of Paladin Danse suggests you’d like the assistance of his team.”

“Paladin Danse was already helping us on his own, but he convinced Dean Winchester to come with him, and the two were kidnapped by three hostiles that the Companions are currently tracking.”

“I see.” Maxson’s face turned to stone. Outside, a vertibird took off, shaking the glasses in the General’s cabinet. “Would you have even considered manipulating me into helping you if Danse weren’t in play?”

“I have no choice but to request your help. We need aerial backup to secure the portal, and strong minds to help build something to stabilize it.”

“Paladin Danse’s situation is merely a byproduct of your original plan.”

“I’m sorry to say, Maxson, but his actions were a byproduct of his loyalty to you and the Brotherhood. Extracting him will help us and ultimately the General, but it’s not necessary.”

“I have little at risk if I refuse to help you. Paladin Danse and Knight Nora, for that matter, are both soldiers. We don’t like to leave our own behind, but sometimes things must be done to win a war.”

“Losing someone with as much power as the General would destabilize the region. Towns and settlements will be ripe for raiding, and farmers will lose yield. I’m sure you’ve noticed just how much surplus food Minutemen settlements have made available for sale throughout the Commonwealth. Maybe, instead of trying to take one of those settlements out from beneath us, we could channel some of those crops to you in exchange for your help. Ten percent of every surplus crop from our top four farms.”

Maxson sat back in his chair. “That would be a preferable exchange. Do not misunderstand me, Garvey. I don’t like to lose good soldiers, but I cannot let decisions about their lives interfere with the overall mission.”

“With the General, it’s not just about looking out for your own.” Unseen construction within the land base shouted metallic clangs beneath their conversation. Distant, unintelligible orders were called out to the unseen construction team. “She’s the only outsider who’s stepped foot in the Institute. That much, I _know_ you know. Taking this risk here and now for a reasonable exchange is the right call.”

“I know.” Elder Maxson sat upright again. “I suppose it does no harm to tell you, but I am in a delicate position right now. Are you familiar with the Railroad?”

“Somewhat,” Preston lied.

“But you know of their ideology and their methods?”

“From what we can figure out based on stories. The Railroad’s pretty secretive. We have no idea who or where they are. They don’t really interfere with us, aside from the occasional recruitment holotape that shows up.”

“The Railroad is real, and is proving to be more enemy than ally. We received intel that they’ve been scouting one of our outposts, where Paladin Danse and his team are assigned. We suspect they desire our vertibird, just as you do.”

“I’m not here on a Railroad mission, Maxson.”

“No, but it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve uncovered such a trick. I ordered the station to ignore all nearby requests for assistance unless the source is confirmed. However, I also believe the scribe on that team would be a powerful asset on this portal mission, and that Danse’s team is in the best position to assist you, given both their location and the vertibird assigned to the outpost. I merely hesitate to leave the station so open. More troops have been since assigned, but losing the core team even for a brief moment is risky. Even with an exchange of necessary supplies, the Railroad might take the opportunity to pounce.”

Now it was Preston’s turn to sit back and reflect on this. Maxson wanted this, but he was testing Preston, seeing how much he could milk from the Minutemen before Preston said enough. “I’ll assign my own team there. We can patrol the major points leading into the station, if not the station itself. If the Railroad is who you say they are, they won’t risk attacking Minutemen.”

“That could alleviate our issues. Perhaps even serve as a test for future endeavors.”

“Perhaps, but we’re running out of time. There’s no telling what the Institute would do if they catch word of this portal.”

“They’d ravage it, certainly.”

“Alright.” Preston stood. “You get a team of Minutemen, and a portion of our surplus, and we get a vertibird and whatever tech is necessary to stabilize the portal, and your smartest available troops to help. Danse and Nora get rescued, leaving both sides happy. We have a deal, Elder Maxson?”

Elder Maxson stood and shook Preston’s hand. “We have a deal, Lieutenant General. Come, join me on the Prydwen for a quick meal. We’ll need to fly you to the next vertibird anyhow.”

Preston nodded, trying not to smile. Piper’s plan worked. “I’d be honored, Elder Maxson, thank you.”

 


	24. .given hell. | .dean.

.given hell.

.dean. 

* * *

 

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Dean sneered. “Where the hell is Sam?”

“And I’m gonna take a moment to enjoy getting the band back together,” said Deacon.

“He was supposed to be with you!”

“Yeah, about that…”

Dean slammed the bars on the cell he shared with Danse. “The second I get outta here…”

“You’ll stop, take a breath, consider kicking my ass, and then decide to run for freedom? Okay, sure. Now if you don’t mind, nature calls, and I’m not sure we’re at the stage in our relationship where we can see each other naked.” Deacon turned his back on the others, then glared at MacCready. “Some space, maybe?”

“Where am I supposed to go?” argued MacCready. “Near your other ass cheek? These cells aren’t exactly meant to hold a lot of people. It’s not as if a dick’s as recognizable as a face, but if you’re that concerned, I’m sure a surgeon’ll give you a dick-lift for the right price.”

“ _Aww_ , MacGreedy _swore_!”

“I think I can make an exception in this case!”

Dean grumbled while they argued and sat down on the cold, dust-covered concrete beside Danse. They needed a plan of escape, but all Dean could come up with was waiting for a guard to come by and tricking them into coming near the bars. The locks on these were automated, controlled by a MacGyver-made console near the furthest corner of the roo. Picking the locks seemed impossible, and each of them had tried. Low light, provided only by a lamp connected to the same source of power as the terminal keeping them caged, made it difficult to find weak points in the bars, which were post-war, as far as Dean could tell. _Maybe piss the guard off, force them to move us to a new spot for some kinda beatdown._ But could Dean handle them without his main hand? Would his fist be weak? No, he’d be fine, but that still involved having one of those piece of shit Rust Devils getting their asses down to this musty-ass room.

Danse brushed Dean’s knuckles, and Dean opened his palm to accept Danse’s hand.

“You doing any better?” Dean asked.

“The stimpak helped, but I could use another. How’s your hand?”

Dean squeezed Danse’s hand. “I think I’m left-handed now.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, Danse. I wasn’t gonna let you get nuked in a cage.”

“But now we’re both in cage.”

“Yeah, and those jackasses are with us.” Dean indicated Deacon and MacCready. “I meant that in a good way, not as a complaint.”

“I understood.”

The power flickered and shut down. Something mechanical clicked. The only visible thing left in the room was the thin line of light coming from the connecting hallway.

Dean put a warning hand on Danse, and smelled the air for sulphur, but all he could smell was urine and dust.

“Good,” said Deacon. “Now help me find the—never mind.”

A latch released. Hinges squeaked.

Dean stood and helped Danse to his feet. Their cage door squeaked open.

“Okay, everyone,” Deacon whispered, “grab onto each other and follow me.”

“How did you do that?” asked Dean, grasping for Deacon in the dark. He’d hoped for an arm, but instead got his hand. _Ew_.

“Let’s just say these guys are less focused on protecting their electronics and more focused on making them look badass.”

“You pissed on that pile of wires to short them out.”

“Yeah.”

Dean shrugged his brows. It got the job done, and that’s what mattered. Their human chain approached the thin line of light with caution.

“Someone wanna fill me in on Sam yet? Or maybe why these guys are so personally pissed you?”

“Sam’s fine,” said Deacon. “Try not to talk when we’re sneaking around. It sort of, kind of, _definitely_ defeats the purpose.” Deacon stood before the thin line of light and peered through the heavy, reinforced door. “In fact, stay put. I’ll go snatch some weapons and come back.” He put his fingers into the door and tried to pry it open. The door had scraped on the floor on their way in, Dean remembered, and needed some coaxing to open without alerting their captors. Deacon hissed as if he’d hurt himself, but the door budged an inch.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” said Danse.

“Oh yeah, let’s drag the guy with the injured leg on a stealth mission,” Deacon whispered. Now there was enough light to see the bruises on his fingernails and the red scrapes on his knuckles. “I don’t mean to dick-wag again, but I’ve got this. I’ve only met one person who can match me on this, and she’s sort of trapped in another world. So hang tight here—” The door opened a little more, this time with a piercing screech. They stilled, but so far, no one came. Deacon pried a little more until he could slide out. “And take advantage of this funnel and the dark if someone comes by and I’m not back in time, alright?”

“I’ll keep watch, then,” said Danse, leaning against the doorframe. Deacon absconded through the hallway and was soon gone from view.

“Is Sam really fine?” Dean whispered to MacCready.

“Absolutely fine. We found your friend too.”

“So why weren’t you two with them?”

“Because Deacon fu—screwed up, and decided to do this himself.”

“He screwed up worse than I did?”

“Than I did,” Danse corrected.

“Not worse, maybe different.” MacCready adjusted his hat. “Piper sent me to fix it.”

“Helluva job you’ve done,” said Dean.

“Nah, if I know Deacon, getting captured was part of the plan. He’d wanted to do this all covert the first time around. Slip in and out.”

“So how’re you fixing it, then?”

“She knew Deacon’d find you, and that I’d find Deacon and leave her a trail. They’re coming, guys. We just need to stay alive until then. And me? I’m not as worried about Tarno and his gang as much as I’m worried about that sentry bot. That thing’ll mow us or the others down if we’re not careful.”

Danse shushed them. Footprints sounded, then faded. It was safe again.

“Hey Danse,” whispered MacCready. “Do you know why Tarno hates us so much?”

“Yeah, I’d like to know why too,” said Dean. “I mean, it’s working to our advantage, but still.”

“Tarno and his gang tried to unsuccessfully raid Starlight,” said Danse. “Apparently, one of his own turned on him. He may blame Knight Nora for that. Betrayal is something he appears intolerant of.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” said MacCready.

“Yeah, this dude seems _really_ pissed,” said Dean. “The group we were with before? Man, he tore them to pieces, literally.”

“I saw,” said MacCready. “Sorry I couldn’t do much. Wind was against me and I didn’t wanna blow up the sentry bot too close to you.”

“I get it,” said Dean. “Well, the Mr. Cods—Mr. Handy must’ve escaped from here or something, because he kept calling these guys his ‘previous masters.’ ”

“It, Dean,” Danse reminded him.

“You’re still gonna say that after what happened?”

“I told you not to get attached. They’re monsters, Dean, rogue byproducts of abused technology. They are things that should not be.”

“I’m staying out of this,” muttered MacCready.

“That might be true,” said Dean, “but all I saw was a family just trying to survive in a world that hates them, and they weren’t hurtin’ anyone. Might not be the kind of family you’d expect, but they were family.”

“For any living thing to engage in such a personal relationship with a synthetic intelligence is abominable.”

“Yeah, well someone made me and someone made you. It’s kind of arrogant to think that the chance of nature somehow makes something better.”

“I’m afraid I cannot agree with you. The Brotherhood has clear lines drawn about what is considered life and what is not.”

Dean stared at Danse, at every little detail down to the small shadows cast by stubble on his face. “Well then, I guess we ain’t gonna agree.”

“Huh, Hancock had you all wrong, Dean Winchester,” said MacCready.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well maybe I had him all wrong too.” His eyes darted to Danse. _Maybe I had a_ few _things wrong._ Danse quieted, as if knowing Dean’s thoughts.

Dean stared into the dim room, trying to remain alert and keep his mind from wandering. Any number of things in this broken room could be used to fight a ghost or even a basic monster, but they weren’t up against either, in the literal sense. Instead, they had to wait on some guy Dean barely knew, who claimed he had the super-spy skills to find weapons just lying around in a den of murderers. But people like the Rust Devils tended to keep their weapons close, so what could Deacon really do? Danse, on the other hand, Dean had seen in action. He was formidable, a little scary, though that was expected of a high-ranking soldier in an elite military organization. Even Dean to some degree knew what he could do himself. MacCready read merc through and through. So why couldn’t they do this together? How could Deacon possibly take on so many guys and carry so many weapons back with him without causing a ruckus?

As if demons had heard his prayers instead of angels and God, three shots rang out. The group took ambush positions. Deacon’s silhouette cut through the light. Danse pushed the door open and Deacon slid inside.

“Not us.” Deacon passed Danse a pistol and pulled another from a holster he must’ve lifted, then handed it to Dean. “Tarno’s pissed.” He motioned with a shrug of his back at MacCready, who lifted one of the two rifles Deacon had dangerously slung over shoulders. Deacon then armed himself.

“Pissed at what?” said Dean.

“His crew. Specifically the guy who was supposed to let slip to the rumor mill that Rust Devils had the General’s crew.”

“Let me guess.” Dean checked his clip. “He dropped the ball.”

“Dropped the ball and let it roll halfway around the world. Look on the bright side, one less point MacCready can score.”

Dean scrunched his face. “Huh?”

MacCready snickered.

“Forget it. I don’t know if any of you were paying attention on your way in here, but we head out of here, make a left, and come to a T. Head up the stairs and we hit an exit. No idea what kind of encryption’s on the terminal there, but I might be able to shut down the turrets and maybe any connected bots. Now I’m no synth with a cool accent and a sweet trenchcoat, so I might need a little cover while I do that. Think you got it?”

“Got it,” said Dean, simultaneously with Danse and MacCready’s affirmations.

They crept down the stale hall, following Deacon’s lead. MacCready took up the rear, following Danse, who followed Dean. Large pipes lining the wall made taking cover difficult. Deacon cleared the stairwell, and the team filed upstairs. This hall was much longer than Deacon implied, flanked by doorways. A terminal jutted out from the wall from beneath a dead exit sign.

They stilled, waiting for any sign of movement. Deacon crept ahead and peered within the first door. He signaled _clear_. The team joined him, MacCready’s eyes still scanning behind them, and found themselves at the next door.

A Rust Devil exited. “Whoa—!”

Deacon bashed his jaw with the butt of his rifle. It sufficed, but another Rust Devil called out to her buddy.

Deacon lifted his rifle and fired. She yelped, but return fire never came. He cleared the room they’d come from, and signaled for Dean’s help tucking the first body back inside.

“Take their armor,” said Deacon, but Dean was already on it.

“This stuff a one-size-fits-all kinda thing?”

“Sometimes. Even one piece’ll do. There, take the bandana for your face.”

Dean removed the dead raider’s bandana and did just that. It smelt of old whiskey and cigarettes and something else akin to dragonbreath, but it was surprisingly free of blood, so that was good enough for him. He nabbed her knife, and two of her arm wraps.

“Are you done?” whispered MacCready.

“No talking, prisoner,” said Deacon. “You catch that? Because that’s the plan if we get caught unawares.”

“Of course it’s about a disguise with you,” MacCready replied. “Couldn’t be that you didn’t trust us to cover your butt and wanted some extra protection.”

“Hey, every little bit counts.”

They returned to their trek down the hallway, the terminal nearing.

A herd of footfalls sounded behind them.

They whipped around and fired on the first Rust Devil to ascend the far staircase.

“So much for disguises,” said Deacon.

“Just get to that computer or terminal or whatever you call it,” said Dean.

Dean fired conservatively, since Deacon hadn’t doled out ammo with the weapons. One missed, but he took down two of the pursuers despite using his offhand. Danse had also fired twice, and MacCready three times. Dean hadn’t even seen the assaultron until its head rolled down the hallway; MacCready had popped it off with a single shot. It hadn’t even gotten a chance to charge its nasty laser.

Deacon cursed beneath his breath in the silence. “Shoulda known this’d be tough.” He growled. “Damn it, locked out.” He glanced down the hall. “Wow, you guys had a party.”

“Any way you can get back into that thing?” said Dean. He peered at the screen.

“Give it a few seconds and I can try again.”

Dean nodded. Deacon began again, and failed his first attempt.

_Black screen and green letters? Really? That’s the kind of tech that runs this place?_ Dean’d heard NASA still used old computers, and heard of hackers who liked going old school with their personal files to keep them hack-free, but this looked almost primitive. _Sam could do this in his sleep. Even_ I _could do this in my sleep. Wait._ Dean touched Deacon’s arm before he could execute another failed attempt. “Hold on. Lemme try.”

“Incoming,” said MacCready, eyes focused through a scope. He fired.

Dean clacked away at the keys while the others fired at Rust Devils. _Boom. In._ Okay, now to navigate the pitiful menus of the computer named ***** !!!!!!DONT FUICKING TOUCHE THIS!!!!! *****.

Turrets off, check. Spotlights off? Why not. Protectron control. That sounded robot-y. Check.

Bullet whizzing by his nose. Check.

Danse saving his ass. Check.

Dean glanced at the firefight. The last hostile in this round was down.

“You got it?” said Deacon.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Just one more thing.”

Add entry. Autofill date. Entry name: Dean Winchester was, no, _wuz_ here. Entry content: And he fucked your shit up, asshats. Save. He cackled to himself.

“Are you done?” said Deacon.

“Yes.”

Deacon and Danse shuffled past him. MacCready gave him a high five.

Deacon nudged open the exit. “Well _this_ should be fun.”

Dean took a look for himself. It was like a Rust Devil convention out there. Those who weren’t drinking were either battling or repairing robots. One guy beat the hell out of another Mr. Handy, or maybe it was still Alfred. “Uh, guys, there’s another one of those tank things.”

Deacon pushed into the spot again. “Shit.”

Dean looked at the pile of deceased scattering the hall by the staircase. He readied his weapon and did a quick scan for for ammo, or maybe a gun with more bullets. MacCready caught up with him. Danse stayed with Deacon, covering them from a distance.

“Ooh, grenades,” said MacCready. “Want one?”

“Gonna pass,” said Dean, thinking of his hand. There, these rounds would do. He snatched what he could, and a few things for the others, then headed back.

“We have two plays, Deacon,” said Danse.

“Three, but okay, I’ll bite.”

“Create a diversion and escape with minimal shots fired, or lure them into here.”

“Wait, four,” corrected Deacon. “Get you two outfitted with bits from our pile over there, and just _walk out_ , or monitor their movements and sneak out.”

“Two of those sound the same to me,” said MacCready.

“I’m for walkin’ outta here alive,” said Dean.

“That’s two for the right plan,” said Deacon. “Come on, Danse, I know it means covering up your uniform…”

Danse grumbled. “Fine. We do it your way, Deacon.”

They hastily armored themselves, wiping blood from viable pieces. Soon, they were outfitted in this world’s version of _Robo-Derelicte_. Dean gave his best “blue steel” Zoolander impression, which fell upon confused eyes. Sam would’ve at least given it a small laugh.

“Remember,” said Deacon. “Act natural, which means crappy posture and slightly drunk.”

MacCready slouched.

“No, not that drunk.” Deacon sighed. “Drunk people are trying to convince themselves they’re _not_ acting drunk.”

“It’s nearly dawn,” said Danse.

“Is he serious?” Deacon asked MacCready. MacCready shrugged.

They headed out into the collection of shacks and danger. Deacon gave MacCready a playful punch on the arm.

“Where’re you guys headed?” said a passing Rust Devil.

“Gonna try an’ find some shit to shoot,” replied Deacon.

“Sounds fun, think’ll I’ll join you. Tarno’s rampaging again.”

“Fuckin’ A he is,” said Dean.

No one came up with an excuse to get rid of the guy.

So they walked with him around the camp.

“There,” said Dean, pointing at a ridge of trees. “Those look good.”

“You wanna shoot trees?” said the Rust Devil.

“You really wanna risk Tarno stepping on a broken bottle?” said Deacon. “Shit, be my guest.”

“Nah, I’m good. Wait. You see that?”

“See what?” said MacCready.

“Fuckin’ spotlight’s out.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Deacon. “I’m shit with those things. You guys any good with ’em?”

Dean and the others gave a “not it” shrug.

“Aw _damn_ it,” said the Rust Devil. “ _Thanks_ guys. Well, have fun shooting _trees_.”

“See ya.” When the Rust Devil was out of earshot, Deacon said, “Not too bad, Winchester.”

“Thanks, I try.”

“Except now we’re on the clock,” said Danse. “And I’m finding it harder and harder to pretend my leg isn’t killing me.”

“Yeah, we can make it to that ridge if we run for it,” said MacCready.

“Let’s think about doing that.” Deacon back-stepped toward said ridge, his eyes focused beyond the group. “I kinda mighta forgot…” He raised his rifle. “That our bios aren’t in the Rust Devil database.”

“What?”

Deacon aimed. “The robots made us.” He fired.

The camp descended upon them.

“Get to the ridge!” called Deacon.

Dean shot at an assaultron, knowing it would be the first to reach them. “I ain’t leavin’ you.”

MacCready took out the assaultron. “Point for me.”

“Best two of three missions?” said Deacon between shots.

“Yeah, no. Have fun catching up.”

The sentry bots sprung to life.

“We need cover,” shouted Dean over the barrage of bullets the bots shot their way. A bullet clinked off the armor on his arm, its force akin to those experienced during the crash landing of Danse’s armor. He gave a shout of pain and dropped his pistol.

“Dean!” Danse fired multiple rounds.

“I’m good.” Dean grit his teeth and picked up his weapon. “I’m good.”

“What part of get the hell out of here was hard?” said Deacon. A bullet found his arm too. “Ow! That wasn’t nice! I’m telling!”

“Are we gonna sit here and turn into meat bags or are we making a run for it?” said MacCready.

“A run for it,” said Deacon. “Seriously, go. _Go now_. Before I grow a beard, which is _so_ five years ago me.”

But the sentry bots neared, so close their weight vibrated the tread on Dean’s boots, and another assaultron darted out from a yonder shack.

And the Rust Devils, well, they played it smart and brought up the sentry bots’ rear.

The group backed up, firing, not doing a great job of taking any threats down.

“Those smokes are mine,” shouted Deacon over the incessant stuttering of gunfire He disabled the dangerously close assaultron. Its body fell, burning a branch beneath it.

MacCready let out a grunt and fell. He steadied his weapon. Dean wrapped his good arm with the bad hand beneath MacCready’s arms, and dragged him. MacCready attempted to help the process with his uninjured leg. The other one oozed blood.

“Never…woulda happened…if I’d kept my hat on!” MacCready roared, his leg jostling.

“Sorry man!” Dean fired again, but now he was useless, a gurney with a shitty trigger finger.

The sentry bots closed in on them…

The team continued firing…

Ear-shattering gunfire overwhelmed the air…

Acrid smoke and earthy dust filled their lungs…

“Ad Victoriam!” shouted Danse. He advanced, becoming a shield for Dean. “Get out of here, Dean. Find your brother, and go home.”

“Danse, you’re in the way of my—”

Danse took a bullet. Another bullet. He crumpled to the ground.

“Leave him!” ordered Deacon.

“Not like I can carry him anyway!” Dean said. He unloaded his clip into the robot. No use. Rust Devils laughed maniacally. “Are _you_ leaving him?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No!” He pulled MacCready faster. “I’m coming back for you!”

Deacon roared. “Dean Winchester, if you don’t shut up and run, then you’re never gonna see your brother again!” Deacon stopped. “Danse’s got more important things to do than be rescued. Now just go!”

Dean’s eyes shot back to Danse, who raised his gun at a sentry bot, which had stopped to discharge excess heat from its back. Rust Devils caught onto the plot, and fired upon Danse. Deacon raised his gun at the other paused sentry bot. Dean continued backing up, dragging MacCready, and tried his hardest to fire at those firing at the Danse without hitting Danse, but nothing worked. Danse fired at the red-hot cores. Twice.

The Rust Devils dropped, one by one.

“Paladin Danse, no!”

Dean looked behind them. Silhouettes lined the ridge, one of them particularly tall, one particular awkward and trenchcoated.

Dean smiled, and added to the fire. But Danse ignored the plea to stop and fired again at the fusion cores.

Dean swallowed and aimed for Danse’s arm, hoping, praying he wouldn’t miss this shot.

But a distant, churning buzz approached. _A helicopter?_

Danse paused and looked up. The Rust Devils turned to the sky.

And the sky looked back upon the remainder of the Rust Devils, and gave ’em hell.

 


	25. .baggage and fray. | .sam.

.baggage and fray.

.sam. 

* * *

 

“Dean!”

Sam raced down the hill to Dean’s position, his shoes sliding over pebbles and challenging his balance. He’d know Dean anywhere, in any disguise, so long as Dean moved like Dean. “Dean!”

The machine gun and whirr of the vertibird drowned out his voice, but Dean still turned, because, Sam expected, Dean could hear Sam anywhere.

Sam was the first down the hill. Without a word, he helped Dean lift the wounded MacCready and together, the brothers carried him closer to the group, away from the battle. They lay MacCready against a flat patch of boulder on the hill, where Castiel awaited.

“Dean! What happened to your hand?” said Castiel.

“Not important right now,” said Dean. “Just take care of him.”

Behind them, the Companions and the vertibird advanced upon the slew of robots and raiders disguised as robots. The two giant tank bots came back to life, and now pursued the other Companions. Dean’s eyes lay on Danse. Sam patted Dean’s arm, and the brothers ran for him.

Danse was in bad shape, too bad to be alive, yet he still breathed and emoted pain when lifted.

“Catch,” said Hancock, tossing Danse his laser rifle.

Danse caught it without fumbling. “Ad Victoriam,” he shouted as the Winchesters carried him off. Sam and Dean set him beside MacCready, who mumbled about getting his hat and seemed to refuse Castiel’s help.

“Just let him touch your damn forehead,” said Dean.

The brothers were off again, this time to retrieve Deacon.

“Hey, Sam,” Deacon said. “Long time no begrudging acceptance of us working together. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Shut your pie hole,” said Dean.

Sam laughed and lifted.

“Get down!” Piper shouted from the field.

The brothers lowered Deacon and flattened. The ground beneath them shook, and heat washed over them. The three slowly raised. One of the massive robots fizzled and smoked. Parts of it rained over the raider camp. A piece of shrapnel stabbed a patch of dirt only feet away from them. The three stared at it a moment, then collectively decided it was time to continue Deacon’s evac.

By this time, MacCready had been healed, and jogged toward the battle, a grimace on his bearded face. “That was weird, but thanks,” he said as he passed them.

They sat Deacon beside Danse. Castiel was crouching beside the latter, peering into him with a head tilt. He pressed his fingers to Danse’s forehead. Danse winced as he healed. Castiel stood and observed Danse’s state with a furrowed brow.

“Thank you, Castiel.” Danse stood. “You’ll have to explain to me how you did that once this is all over.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed further in response.

Danse patted Dean on the arm and returned to the fight, still limping.

“I guess it’s time for my weird miracle healing,” said Deacon.

Castiel tilted his head at him. “Sam?”

Sam’s face fell. “Just do it, Cas.”

Castiel did.

Deacon tore off his sunglasses and smothered his face with his hands, starting at the jaw and working his way up to the cheekbones. “Do I look different?”

Sam scrunched his nose. “Your hands are covering—”

Deacon stared at the lenses of his sunglasses, rotating his neck to get his reflection. Relief washed over him. “Good. Good. Hey, thanks Castiel.”

Castiel said nothing.

“I’ll just…head back into the fray now. Thanks for saving me, and all that.” Deacon ducked between them and ran away.

“Your hand, Dean,” said Castiel.

Sam raised his gun and looked out into the battle. He fired a few shots. “It looks bad, Dean. Can you use it?”

“Not so much.”

“What happened?”

“I picked up one of those power armor batteries as it was about to blow.”

The fight had moved inward so much that Sam needed to get closer for accuracy’s sake.

“Aren’t those nuclear?”

“Yeah, kinda like those things…that are about to explode in the back of that thing!   Get down!”

They hit the deck. A thunderous _crack_ broke through the battle sounds, but the discharge of heat wasn’t as intense at this distance. Sam blinked away the flash of light that had made it through his eyelids, and counted friendlies below. Looked like everyone was still alive, but there were obstacles, and Sam could no longer see the hostiles the others shot at.

“We need to go,” said Sam.

“Cas?” said Dean.

Castiel nodded and healed him. Dean smiled and flexed his hand, then embraced him.

“Thanks, man,” Dean said. “Now let’s kill these sons of bitches.”

Above, the vertibird continued to rain fire, now in shorter bursts. From beside the chopper’s minigun, Preston fired his laser musket, its discharge a metallic rubber band snapping in the air.

In the cluster of shacks, the Companions and vertibird had a handful of raiders pinned. Bulky floating robots and swift terrifying humanoid robots kept the Companions busy.

“Take down the fast ones!” said Dean.

Sam took aim and did just that, downing one just before it reached Hancock and Cait’s location.

The vertibird circled around, keeping the raiders pinned while the Companions and Winchesters took care of the robots. Castiel walked out into the crossfire.

“Cas, what’re you doing?!” shouted Dean.

“Smiting evil,” he replied.

The Companions shouted at him, and the vertibird and Preston fired cautiously.

“God damn it, Cas!” Dean took a floating yellow robot down.

“He’ll be okay, Dean!” Sam said it for Dean as much as himself.

Castiel walked into the raiders’ last bastion, a place of smoke, blood, and shouts. The raiders fired upon him. Bloody holes erupted from Castiel’s body as did Castiel’s name from Dean’s mouth, but Castiel merely staggered and winced, then lifted a raider by the neck and lit him from within with bright white holy fire.

The sight sent the raiders into a mind-fogging frenzy. They stood and backed away from their cover, firing upon Castiel, but he merely picked up the next closest raider and did the same thing.

Sam and Dean took out more of them, as did the Companions. Soon the raiders were toast, and the camp clear. The vertibird landed afar.

Sam and Dean ran over bullet-pocked dirt to Castiel’s side.

“I believe one of this world’s stimulation packs would be of great use to me now.”

Dean shouted for a stimpak donation, while Deacon asked if anyone had seen someone named Tarno. A slightly paled Preston and the vertibird’s crew, two soldiers in helmeted power armor and two without, followed. The vertibird’s pilot remained in the vehicle.

One of the unarmored soldiers, a woman of a fair peach complexion wearing a heavily pocketed orange and brown uniform, jogged toward them, a medical bag in her possession. “Scribe Haylen.” She set down the bag in a patch of crunchy, dead grass. “I’m here to help.” Without a word, she pulled out a knife and cut down the front of Castiel’s shirt. She peeled the obstruction away. “How are you alive right now?”

“I have a very strong vessel and an ability to regenerate.”

She shook her head at the answer to her rhetorical question, and injected him with a stimpak. Bullets that hadn’t gone clean through him popped out of his skin. Astonished, Scribe Haylen stepped back after one bounced off her toe. She shook her head. “Are either of you hurt?”

“No,” the brothers answered.

“Glad to hear it. I need to check on the others. You two need to monitor his recovery in the meantime.” She scanned the ground and the shacks, then reclaimed her pack and headed to the nearest cluster of Companions. “I could use some help on my sweep. Collect the injured and move those you can to…that shack over there. Those too wounded to move, call me over.”

“Is she gonna help the enemy?” said Dean.

Sam shrugged. “That must still be a thing for doctors.”

Dean nodded. “I’m glad you two are here.”

Castiel nodded, but said nothing.

“Yeah, I’m glad we found you,” said Sam. It was more like relief, but he couldn’t exactly say that to his brother. “And there’s some other good news too. Piper might’ve found us a way home.”

Dean laughed. “Piper, huh? Man, did I really fuck up.”

“Well, yeah,” Sam laughed. He was relieved he didn’t have to say that, too.

Castiel continued to stay silent. Dean seemed to notice this, and stopped laughing about his mistake.

Dean cleared his throat. “Maybe we should help the doc so we can get the hell outta here.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Sam.

“I will come with you to speed along the process,” said Castiel, meeting Sam’s eyes, but avoiding Dean’s.

Dean caught this too, and got a head start. Sam gave a slight, worried nod, and followed.

They were going home with more baggage than they brought with them.

 


End file.
